Had some one suspected that she was an impostor and sent for Jack Pollock to prove the suspicion? She was at the end of her rope, and she knew it. A word from Pollock would prove who she was.
Whispering was coming back, grinning widely.
“Feel better? Got everythin’ fixed up. Grant said he’d take a chance on yore cheque. Got some pen and ink, Jim? How much does that total?”
Nan’s hand shook as she made out the cheque, but the men did not notice it. They loaded the stuff in the wagon and drove away. Nan did not draw a full breath until they were out of town. The colour came back to her cheeks and Whispering nodded approvingly.
“Oh, yuh look a lot better,” he told her. “Gosh, yuh shore looked like you’d seen a ghost, when we pulled up at the store. This sun does fry yuh plenty.”
Whispering didn’t know how near he had come to the truth when he said she had seen a ghost. He told Len about it when they got back to the ranch, but Nan assured them that she was entirely recovered.
Hashknife and Sleepy were in the Oasis Saloon when Pollock came in. He shook hands with Cole and with several other men, drank with them, and then went back with Cole to his private office.
Hashknife was tilted back against the wall, with his hat over his eyes, and after the two men had entered the back room, he tilted forward, got to his feet, and walked outside with Sleepy.
“Recognise the black-coated gent who just came in, Sleepy?” he asked.
“Didn’t pay much attention to him. Who is he?”
“I dunno who he is now,” thoughtfully. “About three or four years ago a gambler by the name of Jack Evans shot a feller in the Golden Arrow Saloon in Redfields. They quarrelled over a poker game, and Evans shot him with a derringer. The man didn’t die, but he was badly crippled, and there was a warrant for Evans, who got away. Remember that, Sleepy?”
“Yeah, I remember the shootin’. Is this Jack Evans?”
“If it ain’t, it’s his ghost. I don’t forget faces. Yuh see, I’ve played poker with him. He’s got a scar on the back of his left hand; sort of a white half-moon, where a Mexican pinned his hand to a poker table in Laredo. Wore a big cameo ring on the same hand. The ring may be gone, but the scar will show.”
“Do yuh reckon he’s still wanted in Redfields?”
“That’s not our business. Let Redfields capture their own criminals. What interests me is the fact that he’s here in a small town with one arm in a sling. Harry Cole and the bunch seem to know him very well; so this may be where he hangs out when the police need him pretty bad.”
“Do yuh think he’ll recognise you, Hashknife?”
“Not a chance in a thousand. We never locked horns in any way, and he prob’ly dealt cards to a lot of suckers since he dealt to me.”
They mentioned Pollock to Breezy.
“Jack Pollock? Shore I know him. He used to work for Harry Cole. Oh, he was here a long time. Yuh say he’s back? He’s all right, jist a little slick, thasall. Mebbe Harry sent for him.”
“I don’t know him,” said Hashknife. “Heard them call him Pollock. He’s got his left arm in a sling.”
“Yeah? Well, he prob’ly got clumsy on the deal. Some folks demand an honest deal, it seems. Oh, I don’t say he’s a crooked dealer, Hashknife. Lotsa other ways for him to git hurt. Might have fallen out of a balloon, f’r instance. I’d be the last one to ever say anythin’ against him.”
Hashknife dropped the subject, as far as the conversation was concerned, but did not dismiss it from his mind. It might be the natural thing for Pollock to visit the place where he had formerly lived and worked, but Hashknife did not figure that a man of Pollock’s reputation would do the natural thing. He took it for granted that Pollock was there for some other reason than a visit.
Hashknife drifted back to the Oasis a little later, giving Pollock plenty of chances to recognise him, but the gambler merely glanced at him and went on talking with Cole. Hashknife noticed that his left hand was bandaged to the knuckles, precluding any chance of an identifying glimpse of any scar on the back of that hand.
Pollock did not take a room at the hotel, but occupied one of Cole’s rooms over the saloon, where Cole’s other two dealers slept. Cole’s own bed was in his private office.
That evening about eight o’clock Amos Baggs came in to the sheriff’s office, where Ben Dillon was seated at his desk, writing a letter.
Baggs did not sit down, but stood beside the desk and came to the point immediately.
“I want to talk with you about Len Ayres, Dillon,” he said.
“What’s he done now, Baggs?”
“This has nothing to do with what he has already done; it’s what he might do. You probably know that he hates me for what happened during his trial five years ago. Well,” Amos sighed deeply, “he came to me with all kinds of threats. I tried to smooth things over, but it was no use. You wonder how he got the job of foreman on the Box S? I’ll tell you why he got it, Dillon; it was because he said he’d cut off my ears if I didn’t give it to him.”
“Bein’ your ears,” said the sheriff thoughtfully, “you wanted to save ’em.”
“Naturally. I asked Miss Singer to give him the job. I was retained by Harmony Singer during the last few months of his life, and as I drew his will and located the heir, it would naturally follow that I have charge of the business, at least until after the will is probated and the owner established.”
“Looks thataway,” agreed Ben, who knew little law.
“Well, I haven’t!” snapped Baggs. “Ayres has blocked me in every way. He hates me. I’ve been ordered off the ranch, and threatened with bodily injury if I return. Miss Singer does not confer with me in anything. If you were in my place, would you allow such a condition to remain?”
Ben rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. He looked up at Baggs, a quizzical expression in his eyes.
“Just how much do you value yore ears, Amos?”
Baggs adjusted his collar, shrugged his shoulders wearily.
“We’ll drop that matter,” he said flatly, and then as an afterthought, “I don’t suppose any effort is being made to discover Prentice’s murderer.”
“Any effort? Jist what kind of an effort do yuh mean? We ain’t made no house-to-house canvass, if that’s what yuh mean.”
Baggs put his lean hands on the desk and leaned forward.
“If I was the prosecuting attorney of this county, I’d⸺”
“But you ain’t,” interrupted the sheriff. “If yuh don’t mind, we’ll leave⸺”
Ben didn’t finish his advice. Came the crash of a window pane behind the sheriff, showering him with glass; a sharp cry from Baggs, the thud of a bullet smashing into the wall, and from somewhere outside came the whiplike report of a rifle, the echoes clattering back from the buildings.
Ben’s presence of mind caused him to fall over backward against the wall, clawing for his six-shooter. Baggs staggered sidewise, almost fell, recovered and stood there trembling like a leaf.
“Git away from the window, yuh damn’ ignorant fool!” roared the sheriff, but Baggs didn’t understand. His hands were clawing at his chest.
Some one shouted from across the street, men were running on the sidewalk. Ben slid low beneath the window sill, came up against the wall. He wasn’t going to get in line with that window again.
“They hit me,” said Baggs dumbly. “They hit me.”
“Stay right where yuh are, and they’ll hit yuh again,” said the sheriff sarcastically.
But the shooting was over. A man sprang on the sidewalk in front of the office and threw the door open. It was Breezy.
“Where was that shot?” he began, but stopped. Sleepy joined him in the doorway.
“They shot Baggs,” said the sheriff.
“He’s still on his feet,” grunted Breezy. “Where’d it hit yuh, Amos?”
They crowded around him. Sleepy picked up an object against the opposite wall, a small tangle of metal and smashed wheels.
“Here’s yore watch,” he said, holding it out.
An examination showed that the bullet had cut through Baggs’s left coat sleeve near the shoulder, ripped across his chest, barely scoring the skin, picking up his watch and fountain pen, and had torn his right coat sleeve, but did not tear his shirt.
Baggs’s face was white and he shook weakly. An inch or two to the right, and Amos Baggs’s career would have been closed. He sat down in a chair and covered his face with his hands, while more men crowded in. Harry Cole, one of his dealers, and several cattlemen came over from the Oasis.
Everybody wanted to know what it was all about. Baggs was unable to talk about it. The sheriff told them what had happened, they examined the evidence and departed, taking Baggs with them. He had a keen desire to stay with a crowd.
Breezy and Sleepy stayed with the sheriff, who hung a blanket over the smashed window and sat down to smoke it over.
“The question is: who wants to kill Baggs?” mused Breezy.
“Hang the whole town,” grunted the sheriff. “By golly, he almost grabbed a harp that time.”
“Are yuh sure they didn’t shoot at you, Ben?” asked Breezy.
“Not a chance. No sir, they wanted Amos.”
“A worthy want,” grinned Breezy. “Me and Sleepy was playin’ pool in the Oasis, and that shot sure sounded loud.”
Sleepy grinned over his cigarette, but suddenly sobered.
“Did any of yuh see Hashknife lately?” he asked.
“Not since supper,” replied the sheriff. “I seen both of yuh over at the restaurant.”
“That’s funny to me.”
Sleepy got to his feet and walked quickly out of the office. It was unlike Hashknife not to be in evidence when there was shooting going on. Sleepy went up one side of the street and down the other, as far as the depot, but did not find Hashknife in any of the buildings.
He came back to the Oasis, where he met Breezy, who had also been looking for Hashknife, but without results. Together they went to the livery stable, only to find that Hashknife’s gray horse was in its stall, contentedly munching hay.
“That’s shore got me beat,” confessed Sleepy.
“Well, he can take care of himself,” said Breezy.
“Prob’ly better than you think, Breezy. I suppose I might as well sit tight and wait for him to show up.”
They went back and finished their game of pool, but Sleepy’s mind was not on his shots. The attempt to murder Baggs made Sleepy nervous. As soon as they finished their game, Sleepy left Breezy, who was interested in a poker game, and went over to the hotel, never dreaming that Hashknife might be there.
He found his tall partner slumped down in an old rocker, reading a paper by the light of an oil lamp. The room was foggy with cigarette smoke, which eddied in the gust of wind from the open door. Sleepy noticed that the shade had been drawn over their one window.
“I’ve been huntin’ all over town for you,” he told Hashknife. “Didn’t yuh hear that shot?”
“Yeah, I heard it.”
“Yuh did? And you stayed here? Whatsa matter, cowboy?”
“Wasn’t anybody killed, was there?”
“Somebody dang near killed Amos Baggs, the lawyer.”
“No!”
“They shore did.”
Sleepy described how the bullet came through the sheriff’s window and within an inch or so of killing Baggs. Hashknife grinned through the recital. It was amusing to him.
“And you sat here, readin’ an old paper, and never looked to see what it was all about, eh?” said Sleepy. “Well, that ain’t a bit like you. Kinda losin’ interest, or was the paper so danged interestin’?”
Hashknife yawned widely and laid the paper aside.
“I was readin’ how to stay beautiful after yo’re over forty,” he grinned. “It’s worth readin’.”
“I’ll betcha,” laughed Sleepy. He leaned forward and looked closely at Hashknife. “Whatcha been doin’—cuttin’ yore ear with a razor?”
Hashknife reached up, fingered his ear and looked at the smear of blood on his fingers.
“Piece of that glass must have flew back,” he said.
“Piece of what glass?”
“From the sheriff’s window, Sleepy. I reckon my head was about on a level with Baggs’s vest pockets.”
“You mean that somebody tried to kill you instead of Baggs?”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife. “I don’t want to steal any glory from Mr. Baggs; but I’m afraid that’s about what happened.”
“And you didn’t do anythin’ about it?”
“Oh, shore. I ducked down the alley, sneaked in the backway and read the newspaper. Don’t tell anybody, Sleepy.”
“It’ll probably scare Baggs out of the country, Hashknife.”
“Be a great thing for the country.”
“But why would anybody try to kill you? Don’t set there and grin like a danged fool! Do you know what it’s all about?”
“Nope; that’s why it’s amusin’, Sleepy. Somebody is scared.”
“Scared?”
“Scared enough to shoot at me. I wish I knew why.”
“So do I,” seriously. Suddenly Sleepy grinned widely. “By golly, we won’t sprout, Hashknife. I believe Lobo Wells is human, after all.”
“Most places are, if yuh scratch ’em deep enough. Let’s go to bed and get a good sleep.”
The following morning Sailor Jones came to Lobo Wells after the mail. It was seldom that Sailor took a drink, but when he did, he hated to stop. Such was the case this morning. He got the mail, stuffed it in his hip pocket, and was ready to go back when somebody told him about Baggs nearly being killed.
“By grab, there is some good people left in the world!” he exclaimed, and offered to buy his informant a drink.
One drink was but a beginning, and by the time Hashknife and Sleepy found him he was standing at the Oasis bar trying to sing. If there was one thing Sailor didn’t have, it was a voice, but he merely nodded to Hashknife and continued:
“Tell the ki-yotes, when they come at night,A huntin’ for their prey,They might as well go further,For they’ll find it will not pay;If they attempt to eat me-e-eThey very soon will see-e-eThat my bones and hide are petrified,They’ll find no meat on me-e-e-e.”
“Tell the ki-yotes, when they come at night,A huntin’ for their prey,They might as well go further,For they’ll find it will not pay;If they attempt to eat me-e-eThey very soon will see-e-eThat my bones and hide are petrified,They’ll find no meat on me-e-e-e.”
“That’s a great song!” applauded Hashknife.
“Ain’t she? Fit for a primmer-donner. How are yuh?”
“Fine. How’s everythin’ at the Box S?”
“Couldn’t be any better, if I owned it m’self. Say! Didja hear about old Baggs almost gittin’ his earthly envelope slit? Ain’t that great! But the only thing bad about it is the fact that the present gineration can’t shoot straight. ’F I’d been behind that gun, we’d be celebratin’ a funeral right now.”
“You wouldn’t kill a man, would yuh?” asked Sleepy.
“Men are different,” said Sailor owlishly. “I’m not speakin’ of men, Mister—er⸺”
“Stevens,” said Hashknife.
“To be shore. How’re yuh, Steve? Pleased to meetcha. Well, I’ve got to git home—’f I kin. Gittin’ old, boys. Tha’s all right,” he pointed a finger at the opposite wall. “Nex’ time the door comes around, I’ll bus’ right through.”
“I’ll walk to the hitchrack with yuh,” offered Hashknife.
“Well, tha’s nice of yuh, I’m shore. ’Preciate it. Whoa, Blaze! C’mon, par’ner.”
Hashknife walked out and helped him on his horse. He untied the rope, looped it around the horn, while Sailor gathered up his reins. Suddenly he surged back on the reins, swung the horse around in a sharp curve, socked home the spurs and let out a yell, which could be heard all over town.
The horse made a lunging buck, almost unseating Sailor, and the mail flew from his hip-pocket, scattering out behind him, as he went streaking down the street. Hashknife walked out and recovered the mail, putting it in his own pocket.
“He’ll probably miss it later, and come back for it,” laughed Sleepy, as they walked down to the livery stable.
A little later Hashknife happened to think about the mail, and took it from his pocket. There were two letters to Whispering Taylor, which Hashknife judged were from some patent-medicine manufacturers, and one letter addressed to Miss Singer, bearing the letterhead of Amos A. Baggs.
Hashknife turned the letter over and noticed that the flap was not securely fastened. In fact, it could have been opened by round handling. A flip of the thumb, and it was open. Hashknife was not in the habit of opening other people’s mail, but something told him to look at the enclosure. It read:
“Miss Singer,—I want to have a talk with you, so you’d better come to my office at once. It will be decidedly to your interests not to ignore this letter.“Very truly yours,“Amos Baggs.”
“Miss Singer,—I want to have a talk with you, so you’d better come to my office at once. It will be decidedly to your interests not to ignore this letter.
“Very truly yours,
“Amos Baggs.”
Hashknife put the letter back in the envelope and sealed it securely, after which he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, deep in thought. It was rather a queer letter, he thought. A threatening order from a lawyer to a client.
Hashknife was puzzled. He did not believe that Len Ayres had killed Charley Prentice, although there was no evidence that any one else disliked him enough to do it. And Hashknife hadn’t the slightest idea who had shot at him. He was satisfied that he had been the target, instead of Baggs. The underlying motives were well concealed, but Hashknife felt that somewhere he would dig up a key to the mystery.
He found Sleepy and together they rode out to the Box S. Sailor was sound asleep in the bunk-house, and Whispering was outspoken in his disgust of any man who would get drunk in the morning.
“He tried to tell us somethin’ about Baggs gittin’ killed,” said Whispering. “Was that right?”
Hashknife explained what had happened, and Whispering was duly impressed.
“Lobo Wells is wakin’ up to what it needs,” he said seriously. “I don’t back no murderer’s play, but I do think the town needs cleanin’ up, Hartley. Len’s gone over to the OK this mornin’. Knight wants us to go in with him on a trainload of beef; so Len went to talk with him. The boss is somewhere in the house, if yuh want to see her.”
Hashknife gave Whispering his two letters, and explained about Sailor losing the mail.
“That’s jist like him! Valuables don’t mean nothin’ to him, when he gits a drink or two. Look at these letters! ’F it hadn’t been for you they’d be lost, and I’d never know how to cure liver complaints and as-my.”
Nan came out through the kitchen and greeted them warmly.
“I thought I heard voices out here,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure it wasn’t Whispering and Sailor. They converse quite a bit, as you probably know.”
“Well, I put him to bed,” grinned Whispering. “He was wrong about Amos Baggs gittin’ killed—he was jist shot at. Hartley can tell yuh the gruesome details.”
Hashknife explained to Nan, and then gave her the letter. He watched her closely as she glanced at the letterhead, and there was a worried look in her eyes, as she thanked him for bringing it. After a few moments she went back in the house.
Whispering urged them to stay for dinner, but Hashknife wanted to get back to town.
Shortly after Hashknife and Sleepy rode away, Nan came out to the kitchen and asked Whispering to hitch the team to the buckboard and take her to town.
In the meantime Len had talked with Knight at the OK ranch. Knight happened to have been in Lobo Wells when the shot had smashed through the sheriff’s window.
“I suppose they’ll blame me for that,” said Len.
“They probably will,” smiled Knight. “Some of them will blame yuh for not shootin’ straighter.”
“I guess Baggs isn’t very popular.”
“It’s his own fault, Len. He can’t keep his nose out of things that don’t concern him.”
Len rode away from the OK, intending to go back to the Box S, but changed his mind and rode north to Lobo Wells. He was worried about Larry. Len wanted the boy, and he did not understand just why his son would not come out to the ranch with him. He had seemed so friendly that first day, but had entirely changed his attitude.
Instead of going in on the main street he went straight to the Prentice house. On the porch was a battered old telescope valise and a couple of half-filled gunny-sacks. Minnie answered his knock. She was wearing a rusty black dress, which fitted her like the casing on a sausage, a moth-eaten old feather boa, and on her head, perched high, threatening at any time to lose its balance, was a small black straw hat, decorated with a single eagle feather, pointing straight toward the sky.
“How do,” she said shortly.
“Howdy,” smiled Len. “Where’s the boy?”
Larry came in from the kitchen, a woebegone expression on his face. Len smiled at him, but the boy did not respond.
“I go way,” said Minnie. “Wait for stage now.”
“Where are yuh goin’?” asked Len.
“I go to my people down by Kernwood.”
“Yea-a-ah? Goin’ to stay?”
“Stay long time, I guess.”
“What about the boy?” asked Len, pointing at Larry.
Minnie looked at him, but said nothing.
“I guess I’ll be all right,” said Larry.
“You can’t stay here alone, Larry.”
The question seemed deadlocked until Minnie came to the rescue with:
“Baggs say nobody pay me now, I go home. Baggs say county take care of boy.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Larry quickly.
The Kernwood stage drew up in front of the house, and Minnie went waddling out with her valise and bundles. Len watched her climb aboard the stage, and then turned to Larry.
“Son, I want yuh to tell me what Baggs said. C’mon and sit down here with me, ’cause me and you are goin’ to have a talk about ourselves.”
Larry sat down on the opposite side of the steps from Len.
“Baggs told Minnie to go home,” he said wearily. “He said that the county would have to take care of me, but I can take care of myself.”
“Plenty nerve,” muttered Len admiringly. “Larry, why won’t yuh go out to the ranch with me? I need yuh—need another cowpuncher out there. Me and you would git along great. The boss is a nice lady.”
Larry thought it over for a while, torn between two emotions.
“Mr. Baggs said I hadn’t better.”
“Since when did you start takin’ orders from Baggs, Larry?”
Larry shut his lips tightly. He was a very little boy, but there were things he couldn’t forget.
“Will yuh tell me why yuh won’t go out and live with me?” asked Len. “I ought to know, Larry. After all, you are my son.”
“Well, I don’t know,” he was near tears now. “Mr. Baggs said it wasn’t the place for me. He said you—you⸺”
“He said I wasn’t fit to have yuh, son?”
Larry nodded miserably.
“Because I had been in prison, Larry?”
“I—I guess that was—was part of it.”
“I see. And he said I killed Charley Prentice, didn’t he?”
“He—he said you was a killer, and that folks wouldn’t care to have anythin’ to do with me if I lived with you.”
If Amos Baggs had been in reach at that moment Len might have lived up to the reputation Amos had given him.
“Son,” he said tensely, “would you believe me if I told yuh that I never shot Charley Prentice?”
The boy swallowed painfully, gripped his hands tightly around one knee, but finally shook his head.
“Why wouldn’t yuh, son?”
“Because, I—I know yuh did.”
Len got to his feet and stared down at the boy, who did not dare look up at him.
“YouknowI did?” asked Len wonderingly.
“I heard you.” Larry was crying now. “Me and Minnie promised never to tell. We heard you say: ‘This is Ayres, you dirty dog.’ And then the gun went off twice.”
“Good God!” said Len softly.
For a long time he stood there, staring off across the old town, his face like carved granite in the shadow of his wide sombrero.
“We never told nobody—but you,” whispered Larry.
“Thank yuh, son.”
“I dunno what to do,” said Larry miserably. “Minnie’s gone now.”
“You ain’t afraid of me, are yuh?” asked Len.
“No, I ain’t afraid of yuh.”
“Then won’t yuh try livin’ on the ranch? Yuh won’t have to have anythin’ to do with me—just live there.”
“I guess it would be all right—if I had a job.”
“Can yuh cut wood, Larry?”
“Yeah, I can cut wood—fine.”
“We need a wood-cutter pretty bad. Whisperin’ makes a lot of biscuits and pies and cookies, and he needs wood.”
“Minnie wasn’t much good on pies and cookies.”
“C’mon, boy; we’ll get yore clothes later.”
Larry closed the front door softly and walked out with Len, who untied his horse and they went down toward the main street; a man whose greenish-gray eyes registered a momentary triumph, his lips set in a killing resolve; and a boy who looked ahead at a future of pies and cookies—and a man’s job.
“We’re goin’ over and tell Mr. Baggs about it, Larry.”
“Sure. Guess he won’t like it much.”
“We’ll make him like it, pardner.”
In the meantime Whispering had brought Nan to town, and left her at the lawyer’s office. She realised that she was at the end of her string; the tone of the letter told her that much.
For the first time since the beginning of her masquerade she was afraid of the consequences, but she summoned up all her reserve strength and went into the office, prepared at least to battle for a chance to drop out gracefully, but realising that Baggs was not the type to be lenient with an offender.
He was there at his desk, bowed over some papers, a dead pipe between his teeth. She stopped near his desk and he stared at her for several moments, before he got to his feet and indicated his chair. No word had passed between them. He closed the door tightly and came back to stand near her.
“Well, Miss Impersonator, what about it?” he jeered. “Thought you could steal another woman’s identity, eh? Didn’t you know it was a prison offence? No? Just playing a joke on us, eh?”
He pointed a lean forefinger at her threateningly.
“Don’t you realise that I could send you to prison for a nice long time for what you’ve done? Maybe I will—it all depends on what you do, young lady.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Nan helplessly.
Baggs walked to the window and looked out on the street. He was a firm believer in suspense. Finally he turned.
“I’ll tell you what you’ll do. Perhaps it isn’t what you want to do, but you’ll do it or go to jail. Pack up your little valise and catch the first train out of town. I’ll give you until to-morrow noon. That’s more consideration than I’ve ever shown anybody before. I guess I’m getting soft. I’ll fix up some sort of a story to cover the situation.”
“Can you prove that I am not Miss Singer?” asked Nan.
“Prove it?” Baggs laughed harshly. “Do you want me to?”
“By Jack Pollock?” asked Nan.
“Oh, you knew he was here, did you? Do you want me to bring him over here and face you with it? Your name is Nan Whitlock, or that’s the name he knew you by in Frisco. No doubt you’ve had a good many names. People who do what you attempted here would naturally have used many names.”
“Then I either get out or you send me to jail?”
“If you are here to-morrow noon, I’ll send⸺”
Came the sound of a swift, heavy step on the sidewalk in front of the office, the door was flung violently open and Len Ayres stepped in. Behind him was little Larry. For a moment Ayres looked at Nan, then he turned on Baggs, who had stepped back, a frightened look in his weak eyes.
“I just wanted to say a few short words to you, Baggs,” said Len hoarsely. “I’m takin’ my son out to the Box S to live there. Contrary to yore advice, the county won’t take him, because I won’t let ’em. You’ve done yore best to poison his mind against me, you dirty pup; and I want you to get this straight; if you ever do another thing against me, I’ll shoot yore dirty soul plumb out of yore skinny carcass.”
“Maybe that’s what you tried to do last night,” said Baggs rashly, and with one swift stride Len grabbed him, slammed him against the wall and held him helpless, while with a free hand he proceeded to slap Baggs’s face until the Lobo Wells lawyer shrieked for mercy.
When Len let him loose, Baggs slid weakly to the floor, holding his face in both hands. Len looked at him disgustedly.
“Gee, what a slappin’ he got!” exclaimed Larry.
Len turned to Nan, who had got to her feet.
“I suppose we might as well go home, Nan; that feller ain’t in no shape to talk business.”
Nan nodded, and they walked out together. Whispering was coming across to the buckboard, and they walked over there.
“Larry can ride with you folks,” said Len. “Larry, this is Miss Singer, the boss of the Box S, and this man is Whisperin’ Taylor, the man who makes the pies and cookies.”
“When I can git wood enough,” grinned Whispering, shaking hands with Larry.
“That’s what I’m comin’ out for—to cut wood,” said Larry.
“By golly, we’ll have plenty pie now. Pile in, Larry; the Box S Limited is ready to pull out.”
Larry shook hands gravely with Nan, and they started home, while Amos Alexander Baggs watched them from the window of his office, too mad to do more than grimace with his aching jaws and blink the tears out of his eyes.
It was from Horace Baker, elderly clerk of the court, that Hashknife learned some of the facts about Len Ayres’s trial. Baker had been clerk of the court for ten years, being elected every two years, because no one else wanted the office. The transcript of testimony was all on file, but Hashknife did not ask to read it.
According to Baker, a lone bandit had twice operated successfully within a period of a month. The Wells Fargo safe had been smashed one night between Lobo Wells and Randall, netting the bandit about ten thousand dollars.
Less than a month later the Kernwood stage, carrying five thousand dollars in the strong box, was robbed just out of Lobo Wells, and the description of the lone robber tallied closely to that of the man who had robbed the express car. Descriptions given by men who have been looking down the muzzle of a gun are seldom accurate enough for identification, so the officers merely waited for the bandit to break out again.
It had come sooner than they anticipated, it seemed. Charley Prentice, transferring money from his window to the safe near closing time, the bank being empty of customers at the time, turned his head at a sound and found himself confronted by a masked cowboy.
According to Prentice’s testimony, the man spoke hoarsely, demanding all the money in the safe. Prentice was in no position to refuse, and had given the man what later proved to be seven thousand dollars.
At this moment a man came along the sidewalk in front of the bank, which was still open, and the bandit struck Prentice a sharp blow on the jaw with his fist, knocking Prentice down and badly dazing him, and then leaped the railing and going out through a rear entrance before Prentice could recover.
The man who had stopped in front of the bank was Amos Baggs, at that time prosecuting attorney, and he came in just in time to see the bandit stumble in the rear doorway, his hat falling back into the bank. Baggs did not know that the bank had been robbed, until he found Prentice on his hands and knees trying to stand up.
Even then Baggs did not realise what had been done until Prentice managed to explain, when Baggs ran for the sheriff, Harry Cole. Then Baggs remembered the bandit’s hat, which they found against the rear wall of the bank near the door, and in the sweat-band had been stamped the initials L.A.
According to Horace Baker, Len had no defence.
He admitted ownership of the hat, but said it had been misplaced at home and that he had been wearing an old one. The hat was a nearly-new Stetson and so large that the jury smiled when he said that it had been misplaced.
But Len refused to tell them where the money had been hidden, and they convicted him on the strength of the hat. Prentice was partly able to identify Len as the robber, and his first description covered the cowboy fairly well.
Baker told Hashknife that he had known Mrs. Ayres for a number of years, and had known Prentice since he came to work for the bank.
“Was she a pretty woman?” queried Hashknife.
“Well, yes, she was; very pretty.”
“Did she attend the trial?”
“No, she didn’t. A great many people thought she was wrong in not attending, but I suppose she didn’t feel that way about it.”
“Was she happy with Len?”
“I don’t know, Hartley. She was a woman who liked to dress well and have a good time, and Len wasn’t makin’ much money. I’ve always had an idea that was why Len turned bandit.”
“To buy her things, yuh mean?”
“Yes.”
“Do yuh reckon she got the money?”
“I don’t believe she did. Some folks seemed to think that Prentice married her to get some of it. But I guess Len was too wise for all of them. He’s no fool. Some day he’ll dig up all that money, disappear out of the country and have a nice bunch of cash to start in business for himself.”
All of that was merely conjecture, and Hashknife left Baker’s office no wiser than he had been before. As far as he could learn from talking with the residents of Lobo Wells, they considered Len guilty of all three robberies, and it was the general opinion that some day Len would dig up the twenty-two thousand dollars and leave the country.
Hashknife wondered what Amos Baggs would have to say about his near assassination and as he left the little courthouse he decided to talk with Baggs. The buckboard, carrying Nan, little Larry and Whispering, was just leaving town as Hashknife came out on the street.
He paid no attention to whose equipage it was, but sauntered up the street to Baggs’s office, shoved the door open and walked in. Baggs was slumped down in his chair, his collar loose on one end and standing up past one ear, his necktie torn. He lifted a scarlet face and stared at Hashknife. There were plenty of welts in evidence, attesting to the fact that Len was heavy of hand.
“What’s the matter with you—smallpox?” asked Hashknife.
Baggs heaved himself up from his chair, fairly spitting with rage, not realising that Hashknife did not know what had happened.
“Get out of here!” he croaked. “Get out! By God, I’ll be well paid for this! I’ll kill somebody! I’ll⸺”
“You act as though yuh was mad,” said Hashknife calmly.
“Get out! Don’t talk to me! Will you leave this office?”
“Shore. I’ll tell the sheriff, so that he can come up and tie yuh to a tree.”
“Damn yuh! Leave the sheriff out of this. I’ll⸺”
Hashknife closed the door behind him, wondering what in the world was the matter with Baggs, who was still raving. He found Dillon and Breezy at the office, and told them what Baggs had said and how Baggs had looked.
“What do yuh reckon is eatin’ him?” wondered Dillon.
“Capillary fit,” said Breezy.
“You mean cataleptic fit,” corrected Dillon. “Capillary has somethin’ to do with hair, don’t it?”
“If it does, I mean capillary. His hair is so tight it cramps his brain.”
“I guess yo’re right, Breezy,” grinned the sheriff. “Mebbe he ain’t got over his scare of last night. I don’t blame him.”
“Who do yuh reckon tried to kill him?” asked Hashknife.
The sheriff shook his head wearily.
“I dunno. The longer I’m in this office the less I savvy about crime. I used to read detective stories, about ’em findin’ clues and all that, and puttin’ the deadwood on a criminal. Them writers lied. Yuh can’t do it. When a shot is fired in the dark, and all yuh see is the flash, how are yuh goin’ to deduct who pulled the trigger? Can’t be done. Who would bushwhack Amos Baggs? Why not kill him openly and get a medal? Who shot Charley Prentice? You answer it, I can’t. I’ve lost all faith in detective stories. I tell yuh, it’s all luck, when yuh catch a criminal. Instead of votin’ a man into this office, they ought to check up and find out who is the luckiest man in the county.”
“I guess there’s a lot of luck connected with it,” agreed Hashknife.
“A lot? It’s all luck. Brains don’t do yuh any good, unless yuh carry a horseshoe and a rabbit’s foot.”
Nan Whitlock was doing a lot of thinking about her luck, as the buckboard lurched over the rough road to the Box S. There was no question in her mind that she must get out of the Lobo Wells country before the following noon or go to jail. But how to get away without explaining? That was the rub.
Whispering and Larry kept up a spirited conversation, but Nan’s mind was too busy to allow her to join them. The boy seemed filled with joy over the prospect of living at the ranch, and boasted of his prowess with an axe.
“Yuh got to show me,” declared Whispering. “I’ve seen a lot of you braggin’ cowboys, old timer. How are yuh with a rope?”
“Pretty good,” admitted the seven-year-old.
“Don’t mean a thing. We’ve got to have ’em perfect.”
“Well, I can practice, can’t I?”
“Shore. Work yore string on the cat. When yuh can forefoot a cat, yo’re a dinger. I used to know a Mexican who could rope lizards with a fish line. How are yuh with a six-gun, Larry?”
“I never had one.”
“We’ll stop that. Sailor’s got an old one, and I’ll steal it for yuh. Needs quite a lot of fixin’, I reckon.”
“Well, I’ll fix it all right.”
“Gosh, yo’re shore a handy man for to have, don’tcha think so, Nan?”
“I think he is wonderful, Whispering.”
“More’n that; he’s almost unbelievable.”
Len was at the ranch ahead of them. Whispering drove the team up to the front porch and Nan started to jump out, but the restless team jerked ahead and Nan went sprawling.
For a moment she was dazed, but a sharp pain through her left ankle caused her to sit up quickly, and at the same instant Len reached her. Whispering was swearing at the team and trying to saw their heads off with the bits, while Larry clung to the seat with one hand and his hat with the other.
“Hurt yuh, Nan?” Len asked quickly.
“My ankle!” she whispered. “I think it is broken.”
“Gosh a’mighty, I hope not!”
He picked her up bodily and carried her in the house, while Whispering quickly tied the team and came in. Len took off her shoe and cut the stocking loose with his knife. The ankle was swelling rapidly, but after a quick examination Len said:
“I think it’s a bad sprain, Nan. Heat some water, Whisperin’.”
Len mixed some whisky with water and asked Nan to swallow it.
“It’ll do yuh good,” he said. “Yuh need a bracer.”
The liquor made her a little light-headed, but helped her to bear the pain of having the ankle soaked in hot water, and afterward Len bound it tightly with strips from a sheet.
She managed to get to bed, where she lay white-faced, staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly she realised that it would be impossible for her to leave within her allotted time. Len came in and sat down beside the bed.
“That was shore some shock for yuh,” he told her. “Yore face is almost as white as the pillow, Nan. Can I have Whisperin’ cook somethin’ especial for yuh for supper?”
“I couldn’t eat,” she said wearily. Suddenly an inspiration came to her, and she said:
“Len, I—I told Mr. Baggs I’d be in to see him in the morning. It was important, you see. But I can’t see him now, and I wondered if Sailor would go to Lobo Wells to-night and tell him what happened.”
“Why, shore, Nan. I’ll send Sailor right after supper. Is that all yuh want to tell him?”
“That’s all, Len; that I can’t walk. He will understand.”
“I hope he will. Is there anythin’ else?”
“No; just that.”
Len left the room, and in spite of the throbbing ankle Nan fell asleep, feeling sure that Amos Baggs would understand and be human enough to give her a few days of grace.
A short time after Hashknife had been ordered from Baggs’s office and had talked with the sheriff, he ran across Johnny Harris of the JP outfit, who imparted the information that Len had taken his boy out to the Box S. Johnny had seen Nan go to Baggs’s office and had also seen Len go there.
“I dunno what happened,” he told Hashknife, “but I saw Len go bustin’ into the office like he was goin’ to eat Baggs up. In a danged short time the girl comes out, lookin’ back, and then comes Len kinda backin’ out. The kid never did get all the way in. They piled into the buckboard with Whisperin’, and away they went, except Len, who piled on to his bronco and led the way.”
Hashknife got a grin out of this. He realised that Len had been the cause of Baggs’s scalded look about the face. That was the second time that Len had chastised Baggs. It was no wonder that Baggs was not in a gentle frame of mind.
After Johnny Harris left him, Hashknife sat on the sidewalk and tried to reason out the situation. Finally he gave up and went back to the sheriff’s office, where he tried to get the sheriff’s reactions on a few things. But Ben Dillon was not reacting just at present.
“Anyway,” he told Hashknife, “I don’t see why you’re so danged concerned. Yuh act as though you was sheriff, instead of me. If somebody wants to shoot Amos Baggs, that’s their business.”
“Do yuh feel the same about Charley Prentice?”
“Well, that ain’t such a hell of a mystery, Hashknife.”
“Then why don’tcha arrest the guilty man?”
“Not a speck of evidence.”
“Then why ain’t it a mystery?”
“’Cause it ain’t. Ask anybody.”
“Suppose I ask Len Ayres?”
“Yeah, that would be a sweet idea!”
Hashknife grinned at the fat sheriff.
“I’m goin’ to do that—to-night. I’ll betcha I’ll find out a lot more from him than I have from you.”
“I’ll make yuh a little bet on that.”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife. “if I find out anythin’ at all, I’d win. You can’t tell me a thing.”
Harry Cole of the Oasis was also looking for information, and a short time after Hashknife left the office he came in. He wanted to know what the sheriff had deduced on the attempted assassination of Amos Baggs. The sheriff was getting touchy.
“I don’t know a danged thing, Harry. I’m goin’ to get me an answer book so I can talk back to you jiggers.”
“I suppose Baggs is a little curious.”
“If he is, he keeps it to himself.”
“You don’t need to be sore at me, Ben.”
“I ain’t sore at yuh, Harry. I ain’t sore at anybody. Just before yuh left, Hashknife Hartley was in here, askin’ me a lot of fool questions, which nobody can answer. Said he was goin’ out to ask the same questions of Len Ayres, and he’d bet he’d find out more from Len than he did from me.”
“What’shisidea of askin’ questions, Ben?”
“Answer yore own question. I don’t know.”
“Ben, who is this Hashknife Hartley?”
“A damn nuisance! I wish he’d get a job and go to work. I’m tired of him hivin’ up in my office. Breezy likes him, so here he stays. Mebby I’ll have to fire Breezy to git rid of Hartley and his grinnin’ pardner. Half the time I don’t have a chair to set on around here.”
The big gambler grinned lazily.
“This shootin’ stuff is gettin’ on yore nerves, Ben.”
“Didn’t it git on yore nerves, when you was sheriff?”
“They wasn’t shootin’ at me,” grinned Cole.
“Well, they ain’t shootin’ at me—yet. When they do, I’ll quit. It’s bad enough to be questioned.”
Ben raked his spurred heel across the top of his desk.
“Must be a damn brave man who shot at Baggs,” he said savagely. “When yuh have to bushwhack fellers like him it’s shore sneakin’. Next time I hope they pick some other place for the killin’, instead of my office.”
“Have yuh talked to Baggs about it, Ben?”
“Nope.”
“Did yuh know that Len took his kid home with him?”
“Did he? That’s fine.”
The sheriff was about out of conversation; so Cole went back to the Oasis.
After supper that night Hashknife saddled his gray horse and rode out to the Box S alone. Sleepy had found it easy to beat Breezy playing pool; so he was content to stay in town. Hashknife met Sailor just outside Lobo Wells, and told him he was going to the ranch. Sailor told him about Nan’s spraining her ankle, but did not mention that he was carrying a message to Amos Baggs.
Hashknife found Len at the stable, riveting a buckle on the headstall of his bridle by the light of a lantern, and Len seemed a little surprised to see him. Hashknife sat down on a box and rolled a smoke. He told Len what Sailor said about Nan’s injury.
“If it ain’t better in the mornin’ I’ll get the doctor,” said Len. “She’s asleep now. How’s everythin’ in town?”
“All in good shape, except Amos Baggs.”
Len looked up quickly.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Oh, his face is kinda sore, I guess.”
“Yea-a-ah? Did he tell about me slappin’ him?”
“I don’t think he did,” grinned Hashknife, and told Len how Baggs had ordered him out of the office.
“Kinda funny about somebody shootin’ at Baggs, Hartley.”
“Wasn’t it? I wonder who it was.”
Len shook his head, tested the buckle and laid the bridle aside. He rolled a smoke and leaned back against the wall, the aroma of his cigarette mingling with the pungent odours of the stable. Moths skittered around the lantern, a horse stamped uneasily.
“You came out alone?” asked Len.
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. “I wanted to talk with you, Ayres.”
“Thasso?” curiously. “Talk about what, Hartley?”
“About you.”
Len smiled crookedly.
“Most folks talk about me to somebody else,” he said.
“I’ve talked about yuh to other folks,” said Hashknife seriously. “The whole danged trouble is the fact that they all feel too much alike about yuh, Ayres. Even those who say they like yuh a lot, admit that you got away to a mighty bad start in this country.”
“Even if that’s fact,” said Len grimly, “I don’t see where it’s any of yore damn business, Hartley. What do you care what people say about me? I can run my business.”
“I don’t blame yuh, Ayres. But listen to this, and you’ll know why this is my business: I’m here for the Wells Fargo. There, my cards are on the table. Mebby I’m a fool to tellyou, but I’m takin’ a chance. The sheriff doesn’t know what I’m here for.”
“Wells Fargo, eh?” said Len softly. “So they’re doggin’ my trail, waitin’ for me to dig up that money so they can send me back to the rockpile.”
“They’re still curious about the ten thousand they lost.”
“Did they think you’d recover it for them, Hartley?”
“They’re not that foolish, Ayres.”
“So yo’re a detective, eh?”
“No; I’m a damn fool. No detective would be crazy enough to conceal his identity from the officers and expose it to the man he was to investigate.”
“That’s true. Well, suppose I tell yuh I don’t know where the money is?”
“I’d believe yuh, Ayres.”
“Would yuh? Yo’re a hell of a detective!”
“I know it,” grinned Hashknife. “Let’s go back a ways on this case. I heard that you turned bandit to furnish yore wife with more money than you could earn.”
Len got slowly to his feet and leaned against the wall, his face in the shadow now.
“That’s a new one,” he said grimly. “I suppose I threw away my hat in the bank to prove an alibi? What’s the use, Hartley? If I didn’t pull them jobs, you’d have a sweet time puttin’ the deadwood on somebody else, after all this time.”
“Don’tcha want it proved, Ayres?”
Len was silent a while. Then:
“Hartley, my son thinks I’m a thief and a murderer. Does that answer yore question?”
“It shore does. Did somebody tell him you shot Prentice?”
Len stepped away from the wall and walked to the stable door, where he looked out into the night. Hashknife puffed away on his cigarette and waited for Len to answer. Finally he came back and sat down again.
“Hartley,” he said softly, “yo’re a queer sort of a detective. You came here to spy on me, and yet you tell me who yuh are. I’ll shoot square with yuh. I’m as big a fool as you are; so I’m goin’ the limit with you. The night Charley Prentice was shot, my boy heard that knock on the door. When Prentice went to answer the knock, and threw the door open, my boy heard a voice say: ‘This is Ayres, you dirty dog!’ and then the shots were fired.”
“Yea-a-ah?” Hashknife leaned forward. “He told you he heard that?”
“Yeah, and that was why he didn’t want to come out here. To him, I’m a murderer. The squaw heard it too. They agreed to never tell anybody; but the boy told me. I reckon he wanted me to know why he didn’t want to come out here.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t bet with the sheriff,” said Hashknife.
“Bet what?”
“He wanted to bet that I wouldn’t find out any more from you than I already knew.”
Len laughed shortly.
“I don’t see what good it will ever do yuh.”
“I don’t either, Ayres; but it proves somethin’. Either you killed Charley Prentice, or the man who did kill him wanted the kid and the squaw to hear who was doin’ the shootin’. And another thing—if Prentice hadn’t died right away, he could have sworn who shot him.”
“Yeah, that’s true. If the sheriff knew what I’ve told you, he’d jail me too quick, Hartley.”
“Well, he won’t know it from me. But there’s another question, Ayres. This is pretty danged personal, but I mean it for yore own good. Was yore wife friendly with Prentice before you was arrested?”
Len shifted his position, but did not answer. He got to his feet and walked back to the door, where he leaned out and listened.
“I thought I heard somebody,” he said, as he came back. “I guess it was the dog. I don’t know how to answer yore question, Hartley. She had known Prentice a long time. We had a house in Lobo Wells, yuh know. My wife wasn’t the kind who liked to live out on a ranch. I’ll tell yuh the honest facts of the case; we didn’t get along so good. Mebby I was to blame. I worked hard to get a start, but she didn’t appreciate it, I guess.”
“What kind of a person was Harmony Singer?” asked Hashknife, going off on another tack.
“The best on earth, Hartley.”
“I’ve heard he was.”
“He stuck to me,” said Len softly, and added: “Like a father.”
“Did you know this niece of his before yuh came back?”
“No, I didn’t, Hartley.”
“Heard Harmony Singer mention her?”
“Well, he never spoke about his relatives. Harmony was kinda close-mouthed, yuh know. He was originally from New Mexico, and I guess he was a heller in his time. Died with his boots on, hung to a stirrup. But if Heaven is a place for white men, he’s there.”
Whispering came down to the stable. He was rather surprised to find Hashknife there.
“Nan woke up,” he told Len. “Says the ankle hurts quite a lot. Sailor ain’t back yet, is he? He’ll prob’ly get drunk again.”
“Come on up to the house, Hartley,” invited Len.
“I think I’ll be headin’ back for town,” said Hashknife.
Len walked over to Hashknife’s horse with him, and they shook hands, before Hashknife mounted. It was very dark along the road to Lobo Wells, so Hashknife did not hurry. He pondered deeply over what Len had told him, trying to figure some angle on which to work. It meant going back five years, and in five years many small details are lost.
He travelled along the dusty, sandy road, the tall gray horse eating up distance with a swinging walk. Less than a mile out of Lobo Wells the road crossed Manzanita River on an old bridge, a narrow old structure, which creaked threateningly. The river here was mostly a big pot-hole below the bridge at this time of year, where a few old cottonwood stumps stuck their tops above the pool of dirty water.
Just before he reached the south end of the bridge, the gray shied slightly. Hashknife jerked up the reins quickly, but was unable to see anything in the gloom. He rode on to the bridge and went slowly across.
The bridge sloped rather sharply on the north end, and as he rode down this incline he heard a sharp whistle, apparently some distance behind him; one sharp note. Instinctively he twisted in his saddle, looking back, and at the same instant he was blinded by a terrific flash, something hit him with a stunning force and he lost consciousness.
But even in his helpless, unconscious state, he seemed to hear voices. They seemed miles away, yet audible.
“Let me shoot him again.”
“He’s plenty dead right now.”
Then he seemed to be sailing through space, and he wondered whether a dead man was able to hear people talk. It seemed ridiculous, but who would know what a dead man could hear?