“Mister, do you know how to fly kites?”
One “Hashknife” Hartley, newcomer, sitting on the wooden sidewalk in front of the Lobo Wells Hotel, lazily turned his head and looked at little Larry Ayres, half hidden by a huge home-made kite, from which a rag and string tail dragged several feet behind. The boy’s face was very serious as he questioned the lean, lanky stranger, whose gray eyes were hidden beneath the wide brim of his sombrero. “I can’t git it started,” confessed the boy helplessly.
Hashknife’s lips parted in a wide, lazy grin.
“Pretty big kite for a small boy, don’tcha think, buddy?”
“I wanted her big. My name’s Larry, and I’ve got plenty of string.”
“Then yo’re all right—except for a start. Make it yourself?”
“Me and Minnie. Minnie’s Injun, and she don’t know beans about a kite. But she made the paste and gave me a nickel for string. What I need is help, right now.”
“That’s a common need,” grinned Hashknife, as he got up from his seat. “I reckon yore need is as worthy as most; so we’ll fly the kite, Larry. What’s the rest of yore name?”
“There’s some argument about that,” said Larry seriously, grasping the kite in both hands and kicking the tail away from his feet. “We’ll go out on the flat near my house, where we can get a run at it.” He led the way, while the lanky cowboy followed him, grinning a little. There was plenty of open country, but of wind there was none, and after a few ineffectual trials they decided that kite-flying was a failure.
“Yuh need wind,” explained Hashknife.
“Yeah, that’s right,” agreed Larry. “We don’t get much wind about here. What’s yore name?”
“My name is Hartley, Larry. Why did you say there was an argument about yore name?”
“Because my real dad went to jail for a long time, and my other dad was named Prentice. But my name is Ayres, just the same. Do you know Len Ayres? He was a bank robber—but he ain’t now.”
“Oh, I see,” nodded Hashknife thoughtfully. “But yo’re still livin’ with yore other dad, ain’t yuh?”
“I’m still stayin’ at his place. But he’s drunk. He’s the cashier of the bank.”
“Oh, yeah—and he’s drunk, eh? Not so good for a bank cashier, is it, Larry?”
“I guess not. He didn’t used to drink at all, but now he’s drunk all the time. Me and Minnie keep away from him, ’cause he swears at us. He’s got a gun, too.”
“Lookin’ for trouble, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“I dunno. Minnie says he’s got trouble inside. What does she mean by that?”
“He ain’t sick, is he, Larry?”
“He never had any doctor.”
“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Well, Larry, I reckon the kite ain’t a success.”
“I guess we better wait for a wind, Mr. Hartley.”
Larry leaned the kite against a fence post and walked back to the main street with Hashknife, where they met Breezy Hill, the deputy sheriff. Larry managed the introduction very well, and the two men grinned at each other as they shook hands.
“We been tryin’ to fly a kite, Breezy,” explained Larry.
Breezy grinned. “That’s shore fun. I ’member once down in southern Kansas, when me and another feller flew a kite. He made it out of half-inch hardwood strips, covered it with rawhide, and hooked on a hundred and fifty feet of half-inch rope. Then I tied off on my saddle-horn and went straight into the wind. I got my right arm broke and lost a sixty-dollar saddle. Ho, ho, ho! They havewindin Kansas!”
“I wish we had wind here,” sighed Larry.
“Well, I came here to git out of it,” laughed Breezy.
They walked down towards the livery stable, where Sleepy Stevens had gone to see that the stableman had taken good care of their horses, and found him near the wide front door. Hashknife introduced him to Breezy. Sleepy Stevens was of medium height, broad of shoulder, with rather a blocky face, deeply lined with grin-wrinkles, and with wide, innocent-appearing blue eyes.
The raiment of both Hashknife and Sleepy were typical of the south-west ranges. Overalls tucked in the tops of high-heeled boots, thin, faded shirts, stringy vests, well-worn silk neckerchiefs and Stetson hats, more or less weathered. Both men wore holstered guns, sagging heavily from their belts, which had seen so much service that they fitted perfectly to the curve of hip and thigh.
There was nothing ornamental about their garments. Neither man was inclined to ornaments, and even their heavy Colt guns bore handmade plain wood handles.
As the three men and the boy were talking, Amos Baggs, driving a livery rig, turned his horse in through the open doorway. The Lobo Wells lawyer’s chin was set at a belligerent angle as his weak eyes glanced at the group at the doorway, but he did not speak until after he had turned the rig over to the stable keeper and came back to the doorway. He ignored Hashknife and Sleepy, speaking directly to Breezy, who seemed rather amused.
“I’ve been out to the Box S,” he told Breezy. “Went out to see Miss Singer, who is my client, as you know, Hill. She wasn’t there, and I was ordered off the place by Whispering Taylor and that other old skunk, Sailor Jones. They threatened me with a gun.”
“Ye-ah-ah?” drawled Breezy, evidently unimpressed. “With a gun, eh? Yuh know,” reflectively, “either one of them old jiggers will shoot. They say that Sailor killed several men down in the Panhandle, and Whisperin’ had so many notches in his gun that it ruined the balance of it and he had to throw it away.”
“That has nothing whatever to do with this case,” said the lawyer.
“Merely proves that you was wise in comin’ away, Baggs.”
“It may seem funny to you,” said Baggs angrily, “but to me there was little humour in the situation. I have a perfect right to visit that ranch. I handled the affairs of Harmony Singer, and I have been retained by Miss Singer in an advisory capacity. I shall advise her to discharge those two men at once, and I shall force the sheriff’s office to give me protection. This is a fine state of affairs for a civilised community.”
“You shore must have run into a hell of a lot of grief out there,” grinned Breezy, “but I’d hate to see the old fellers lose their jobs. They’d jist about massacree yuh, Baggs. You couldn’t have ’em put in jail for tellin’ yuh a few things, but if you get ’em fired—you better go on a vacation.”
“I refuse to be bullied!”
“Go ahead. Anyway, you better tell yore troubles to Ben Dillon, ’cause he’s the sheriff. I’m jist his hired man, and I ain’t supposed to know anythin’. He’d tell yuh his opinion.”
Baggs snorted angrily and went up the street, mopping his almost bald head with a gaudy handkerchief, while Breezy chuckled out loud.
“Ben’ll tell him his opinion all right. Ben hates Baggs, and he likes them two old codgers.”
“Baggs is a lawyer, eh?” asked Hashknife.
“Oh, shore. Used to be prosecutin’ attorney of this county. He done some lawin’ for old Harmony Singer, who owned the Box S. Old Harmony up and died from bein’ dragged by a horse, and he left everythin’ to his niece. I guess she hired Baggs to handle her lawin’.”
“Was the place worth much?”
“Oh, shore. The Box S is a good layout.”
“Is the girl runnin’ it?”
“I reckon she is, with the help of Len Ayres and them two old jiggers that made Baggs so uncomfortable.”
“Len Ayres is my father,” said Larry.
“Yeah, that’s right, Larry,” agreed Breezy. He turned to Hashknife. “I’m gettin’ hungry, and I hate to eat alone; will you boys join me?”
“I reckon we can eat,” grinned Hashknife, and they walked up to a restaurant, where Larry left them.
Breezy was rightly named. He loved to talk, and during the hour he spent in the restaurant with Hashknife and Sleepy, he gave them a résumé of Lobo Wells for the past five years. He talked until even the bland-faced Chinese waiter wondered what it was all about, because cowboys usually bolted their food and finished in haste.
“And nobody ever did find Len Ayres’s cache, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“If they did, they never told anybody. Why, even after Len’s wife married Prentice and sold Len’s old ranch, they tore up the floors and dug all around the place. I reckon they had an idea he cached the money near home. He’s back again now, and he’s the only one who knows where it is.”
“I suppose the sheriff is keepin’ a watch on Ayres, eh?”
“He’d have a swell chance, Hartley,” Breezy said.
“Yeah, that’s true. Not a chance in a million.”
“And Charley Prentice drank himself out of a job since Len came back. Hardly ever took a drink before. Now he’s lost his job,” the deputy added.
“Scared that Ayres might kill him for what he done?”
“Looks thataway. Took to booze like a calf to milk. Makes it tough on the kid. But at that, I’ll betcha the kid would quit Prentice any time to go with Len.”
Hashknife nodded. “And you say that Amos Baggs was the prosecutor who sent Ayres to the pen?”
“Shore was.”
“Who was the sheriff—the same one you work for?”
“No-o-o. Harry Cole was sheriff then. He owns the Oasis Saloon and Gamblin’ Palace. His term ran out the followin’ year after Len went over the road.”
“Uh-huh. And Prentice was cashier of the bank when Len Ayres robbed it, eh?”
“Y’betcha. And then he turned around and married the wife of the man who robbed him. Kinda funny, eh?”
“Funny to us, I suppose,” said Hashknife slowly. “Fate is a queer thing.”
“Are you one of them fellers who believes that everythin’ is cut out for people?” Breezy asked. “That it don’t make no difference how careful yuh are, nor how wise yuh are?”
“Somethin’ like that,” nodded the tall cowboy. “There’s a Big Book somewhere with it all written down. On that book is the things yuh are to do and how yuh finish. You can’t dodge it, Hill.”
“Yuh mean that yuh can’t help bein’ what yuh are and doin’ what yuh do, Hartley?”
“You shore can’t.”
“Hm-m-m-m,” thoughtfully. “It seems to me that when yuh feel thataway about life, yuh can forgive folks for what they do.”
“Why not?”
“Well, that’s kinda human, Hartley. But from what I’ve seen and heard in my life, yore lodge ain’t got a hell of a big membership. Let’s go over and meet Ben Dillon. He’s hawg-fat and he ain’t so awful smart, but he’s human enough and lazy enough to forgive anybody. If you boys are lookin’ for jobs, I’ll see Silver Prescott for yuh. He owns the JP outfit, and he’s a good man.
“And there’s Oscar Knight’s OK outfit. He don’t use so many men as Silver Jim does, but he’s plumb white man. Of course, the Box S is out of the question, unless Baggs manages to git them two old men fired, which I hope he don’t. It wouldn’t be the Box S without them two old terriers. Whisperin’ Taylor does the cookin’, while Sailor Jones cuts the wood, does the horse wranglin’, and helps with the ridin’. And there ain’t a minute when they’re together that they don’t quarrel. But lemme tell yuh this much—don’t pick on one of ’em when the other is in hearin’ distance.”
Hashknife and Sleepy laughed, as the three walked across the street to the sheriff’s little office.
Ben Dillon did not prove as communicative as Breezy Hill. While being good-natured and friendly, Dillon was inclined to be just a little reserved with strangers. Breezy explained that Hashknife and Sleepy were looking for jobs with some outfit, which seemed reasonable to the sheriff.
It was late in the evening when Hashknife and Sleepy got their first chance to see the notorious Len Ayres. They were in the Oasis Saloon playing a game of pool when Len came in. Breezy was in the game and pointed Len out to them as he stopped near the bar, looking the room over.
Hashknife was more interested in Charley Prentice, although he did not know who Prentice was. The ex-cashier was standing at the bar where he had imbibed considerable whisky, and his extreme nervousness had attracted Hashknife.
His eyes seemed dilated and he continually fussed at his sleeves, rubbed his chin, and otherwise gave evidence that his nerves were in a bad way. Hashknife decided that this man was on the verge of delirium tremens, and would bear watching. His clothes were wrinkled, his collar dirty and he had not shaved recently. He left the bar and came down toward the pool table, walking rather unsteadily and acting as though he didn’t know what to do next. Hashknife was in the act of making a shot, but lifted his cue and looked at Prentice, who was so close that he interfered with the cue.
Hashknife was about to speak to him when he noticed that Prentice was staring at Len Ayres, who was watching a poker game. For the space of possibly five seconds Prentice looked at Len Ayres, and then, without any warning, slipped a hand in his coat pocket, quickly drew out a heavy Colt revolver, snapped back the hammer and pointed the gun at Len’s back.
As quick as a flash Hashknife swung his billiard cue in a short arc, struck Prentice’s right wrist a sharp blow, knocking the gun out of his hand. But the force of the blow also caused Prentice to jerk back on the trigger, and the gun went off before it clattered to the floor. The bullet drove into the floor just short of the poker table.
Len Ayres whirled at the report of the gun, and Hashknife saw as swift a piece of gun play as he ever saw in his life. Len had whirled, drawn his gun and was backing away, swinging the muzzle of his gun menacingly, almost before the thud of the shot had died away in the room.
But all he saw was Charley Prentice, clinging to his right wrist with his left hand, the gun on the floor at his feet, and Hashknife dangling a billiard cue in his two hands.
The room was in an uproar in a moment. Harry Cole stepped close to Prentice, grasping him by the arm, while Prentice mumbled plaintively and tried to draw away, but the big gambler yanked him back, his eyes snapping.
“Yuh can put up yore gun, Len,” said Breezy nervously. “I seen it all. Prentice tried to shoot yuh in the back, but Hartley here smashed him across the wrist with a pool cue. Mebbe I better put the danged fool in jail.”
“Not on my account,” said Len.
“But he tried to murder yuh, Len. If Hartley⸺”
“If Len ain’t kickin’, where do you come in?” interrupted Harry Cole. “Too much liquor. Bed is the place for him—bed and a doctor.”
“Oh, all right,” grunted Breezy. “Might handcuff him at the same time.”
“I’ll take care of him,” said Cole, and led Prentice out of the saloon.
Len holstered his gun and came slowly over to Hashknife.
“Len, I want yuh to meet Hartley,” said Breezy.
“I want to meet him, Breezy,” Len said soberly, as they shook hands. “And I want to thank Hartley for what he done.”
“Yo’re welcome, Ayres.”
“That’s fine. I reckon he kinda had me foul. I didn’t see him there, Breezy. Mebbe I wouldn’t have noticed him, anyway. He ain’t the same man he was when I left here.”
“He’s older, Len; and he’s been drinkin’ heavy. Lost his job.”
“No!”
“Fact. Old man Grant fired him.”
“Gosh, that’s kinda hard luck.”
Hashknife looked closely at Len Ayres, who seemed genuinely sorry to hear that Prentice had lost his position. Ayres might be a bad man, but Hashknife decided that there was nothing petty about the man. Breezy introduced him to Sleepy.
“I reckon I’m lucky you boys came to Lobo Wells,” he said. “I’m shore indebted to yuh, Hartley. Any time I can do anythin’ for yuh, just yell loud enough for me to hear.”
“Yuh ain’t indebted to me,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ve been watchin’ that feller for quite a while, expectin’ any minute that he’d start trompin’ on snakes. I don’t think he’s responsible for what he done.”
“I reckon he knew what he was doin’,” said Breezy.
“I reckon he did,” nodded Len. “But it’s all past now. I wouldn’t get any satisfaction out of jailin’ him, Breezy. Yuh see,” he shifted his eyes to Hashknife. “I know what it means to be behind the bars.”
“I’ve got friends on both sides of ’em,” said Hashknife. “I dunno which ones I prefer; possibly the insiders.”
“I’ve seen some pretty good men on both sides,” agreed Len.
“Speakin’ of people yuh don’t like, Len,” said Breezy, “we saw Amos Baggs to-day, after he was out to the Box S. He shore was fit to be tied. Said that Whisperin’ and Sailor ran him off the ranch. Gee, he shore was boilin’.”
Len smiled thoughtfully.
“I guess he would be. I didn’t know they ran him off.”
“Well, that’s the way he’d put it, Len. Said he was goin’ to have the lady boss fire both of ’em.”
“He did, eh?” The greenish-gray eyes hardened for a moment. “Mebbe the lady will have somethin’ to say about it, Breezy.”
“I was thinkin’ that myself. How do yuh like her, Len?”
“Well, she’s all right, I reckon. Don’t know anythin’ about the business, of course.” He smiled suddenly. “Gives Whisperin’ and Sailor somethin’ to quarrel about. Sailor swears he don’t like her and that he’ll quit the job the first time he gets a chance. But I’d hate to be the person to say a word against her where he could hear it.”
Harry Cole came back and walked up to Len.
“I took him home and had one of the boys get a doctor,” he told Len. “Charley is in bad shape.”
“That’s too bad, Harry; I hope he gets along all right.”
Cole looked sharply at him, but walked away without further conversation. Len held out his hand to Hashknife, as he said:
“I’ve got to be goin’ back, but I want yuh to know I appreciate what you did for me, Hartley. Come out to the Box S.”
“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll see yuh later,” and then he turned back to the table and picked up his cue.
The next few days were quiet ones in Lobo Wells. Hashknife and Sleepy met Silver Jim Prescott of the JP ranch, but he had no jobs open. It was the same with Oscar Knight, the little bow-legged owner of the OK outfit. He sized both men up seriously and told Hashknife frankly that he was sorry he didn’t have a job for them.
But the pair did not seem worried about the inability to secure work, and made no effort to move farther down the valley, where there were other cattle outfits. They spent much of their time at the Oasis, playing pool or poker, and loafing around the sheriff’s office, imbibing local colour and gossip from Breezy, who never seemed to run out of conversation.
Charley Prentice had narrowly succeeded in evading an attack of delirium tremens, but was now back at the liquor again. Hashknife had met him several times, but Prentice did not recognise him. Hashknife had been introduced to Amos Baggs, who was also drinking more than was good for him, which caused the Lobo Wells lawyer to appear morose and grim.
“I don’t like this place,” decided Sleepy. “Nothin’ ever happens around here, Hashknife. Another week in this town and I’ll start sproutin’ like a potato.”
Hashknife grinned slowly.
“It ain’t very fast, Sleepy. But ain’t it restful?”
“Yeah, it’s shore restful.”
“All my life I’ve wished for a peaceful town. This is it, Sleepy; Peaceful Town. Lobo Wells sounds like a place where things might happen, but she’s misnamed. Mebbe.”
“Why the mebbe, cowboy?”
“Who knows what’s under the surface? Consider dynamite; it’s just a brown cylinder. Just about as dangerous as a stick of wood, unless yuh monkey with it. Never judge anythin’ by what yuh can see, Sleepy. And for a change I’d suggest that me and you ride out to the Box S.”
“Suits me. Anythin’ to get away from this town.”
Whispering Taylor looked upon them with suspicion until it dawned upon him that Hashknife was the tall stranger who had prevented Charley Prentice from shooting Len Ayres. Len had told him about the incident.
“I’m Whisperin’ Taylor,” he told Hashknife. “Len and Sailor are out in the hills some’eres to-day. Git down and rest yore feet. I’m bakin’ some apple pies and there’ll be a-plenty for everybody. Tie yore broncs in the stable and heave a few oats into ’em.”
Nan, hearing voices, came out on the porch, and Whispering managed to perform a sort of introduction, after which he headed for the woodpile in a hurry.
“Len told me about you,” smiled Nan. “I’m glad you came out to see us.”
“Yes’m,” nodded Sleepy quickly. “Nice place yuh got, ma’am.”
“It really is nice.”
“One of the nicest I ever seen,” seriously. “And it’s kind of a novelty to find a woman runnin’ a cow ranch.”
“Oh, I’m not running it—much. I leave that to the men.”
“I reckon that’s the right thing to do.”
“Won’t you put up your horses and stay for supper? Len and Sailor will be along pretty soon, and I feel sure they would be sorry if you didn’t stay.”
“I’ve made upmymind,” grinned Sleepy. “I’ll stay.”
“I expected that,” said Hashknife seriously. “Thank yuh, Miss Singer.”
“By golly, that’s a pretty girl,” declared Sleepy, as they unsaddled their horses at the stable.
“Not bad,” said Hashknife.
“I’d tell a man!”
Hashknife chuckled softly. Sleepy felt the same about every girl he met, and still he had never had a girl he could call his own.
“What are you grinnin’ about?” asked Sleepy.
“Nothin’. Only I’ve heard that same thing before, Sleepy.”
“Well, why not? I’m old enough to know what I—aw, quit it! Just because yo’re girl-proof, yuh don’t need to think I am.”
“I never thought yuh was, pardner. Go ahead. This would be a great country to settle down in—and sprout.”
“A feller could move, couldn’t he? Say, who ever started this argument? My gosh, can’t I even look at a girl?”
Hashknife chuckled loudly as he removed his spurs and shook himself loose from his batwing chaps.
“You’ve got my permission, pardner,” he said.
“Thank yuh kindly, sir.”
They went back to the house and sat down on the porch. Sleepy sat on the steps, hugging his knees and watching Nan, as they talked. She had absorbed considerable range knowledge from the three men at the ranch and was able to discuss the cattle business rather fluently for a beginner.
Hashknife mentioned different ranges and the things they had seen in their wanderings from Alberta to the Mexican border, and Nan seemed greatly interested. “You must have done a lot of wandering in your time,” she said.
“Quite a little,” agreed Hashknife thoughtfully. “There’s a lot of trails behind us, and I hope there’s a lot ahead. But yuh never can tell. That’s the best of life—the uncertainty of the future. Always gamblin’ with to-morrow; takin’ a chance. Do you believe in takin’ chances, Miss Singer?”
Nan looked away quickly to escape those level gray eyes of the tall, serious-faced cowboy. Did she believe in taking chances? It seemed to her as though this man knew.
“I suppose we all take chances,” she said softly, not looking at him.
“Yeah, that’s true. When we get up in the mornin’ we take chances.”
“Might choke on a aig,” drawled Sleepy, and they all laughed.
“Do yuh like this life?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t know,” said Nan quickly. “I have never been so lonesome in my life, and yet I am happier than I have ever been. Why, I haven’t seen a woman since I’ve been here. I’ve been too busy to go to Lobo Wells. I suppose there are women in the town.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen some,” nodded Hashknife. “But not the kind you’ve been used to seein’. Paint, powder and styles don’t mean anythin’ to ’em. They’re hard-workin’ folks and they don’t get much enjoyment out of life, but they’re human. They won’t never say mean things about yuh, and no matter who yuh are or what you’ve been, they’ll shoot square with yuh. It ain’t a case of the survival of the fittest out here, like it is in the city. They don’t drive the weak ones to the outside of the herd for the wolves to pull down. All they ask is honesty, ma’am. Yore word is yore security.”
Nan drew a deep breath. All they asked was honesty. And she wasn’t honest. But if she had been honest she would still be tramping the streets, looking for work, or working for a small wage and living in a hall bedroom, cooking hamburger over a gas jet.
“Everybody ain’t honest,” said Sleepy.
“If they was,” said Hashknife softly, “we’d settle down, pardner.”
“And sprout,” added Sleepy.
Nan didn’t know what they meant, and it was possibly just as well for her peace of mind that she did not, although they knew nothing wrong of her. To her they were but two drifting cowboys, looking for work, but the back trails that Hashknife had spoken about knew them for more than that.
Their partnership had begun when Henry Hartley, a long, gangling cowboy, fairly fresh from the Milk River country in Montana, drifted south and became a rider for the brand from which he had later been nicknamed.
And on this same ranch was Dave Stevens, nicknamed Sleepy, a cowboy with an itching foot. Together they rode the range of the Hashknife, bunking together, sharing what they had, until the horizon called them and they rode away together, for ever ordained by Fate to keep on going, always looking to see what was on the other side of the hill.
Hashknife was the son of a range preacher, who propounded the gospel of life in bunk-house or in the open; teaching men how to live rather than how to die; and Hashknife had absorbed much of his philosophy as a foundation.
But through some kink Hashknife had been born with a keenly analytical mind. He knew that every effect must have a cause. His keen eyes registered impressions of things that other men might overlook, and as Sleepy had said: “He hears the grass grow.”
It seemed as though fate threw them into troubled places. Unconsciously they would blunder into a range mystery, where Hashknife would be in his element until it was cleared up. Again they would accept an assignment from a cattle association to clear up some trouble.
Sleepy analysed nothing. He was the man Friday, supreme in his confidence in Hashknife’s ability, following along, never knowing just when they might strike the end of the trail; but always ready to back Hashknife with a smoking gun or the weight of his two hard fists.
It had not been a remunerative partnership. They were poorer in pocket than the day they had ridden away together. They did not ask for pay—did not wait for it. The job was the thing.
And there had been many mighty hard jobs. Death had ridden knee to knee with them many times; struck at them from beside the bushy trail, lashed out of the darkness, darted out at them from a pall of powder smoke; but still it fell short.
Their life had made them confirmed fatalists. Perhaps that and their sense of humour carried them on. Neither of them was a split-second gunman. At times they marvelled at their luck, which left them unscathed while gunmen went down, leaving them to carry on.
“Some day there won’t be no other side of the hill,” Sleepy had predicted.
“It comes to every man,” Hashknife had agreed. “But if we’re lucky we’ll get high enough up to peek over the top.”
It was nearly supper time when Len and Sailor rode in. Len seemed pleased to find Hashknife and Sleepy there.
“I was wonderin’ if you’d left the country,” he told them.
“We don’t move very fast,” grinned Hashknife. “Miss Singer invited us to supper, so we decided to stay.”
“I’m shore glad she did.”
Sailor was friendly enough, and even intimated to Whispering that these two punchers never came from any mail-order house, which was quite a lot for Sailor to say about anybody.
After supper Len decided to ride to Lobo Wells with them. They were out of tobacco at the ranch and there were a few other small purchases to be made. Nan shook hands with them and asked them to come back soon. After they had ridden away with Len, Nan said to Whispering:
“I like those two men, Whispering. I think the tall one has the cleverest eyes I have ever seen.”
“Don’t get fooled on no cowpuncher,” advised Sailor. “Clear eyes ain’t no bay-rom-eter on his conscience. Most honest man I ever knowed was plumb cross-eyed and had a sty on one of ’em.”
“Yore idea of honesty,” said Whispering. “I was kinda impressed by this tall one m’self.”
“Shore yuh would; didn’t he brag about yore biscuits?”
“I dunno,” Whispering shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I look at you, Sailor—and wonder. To begin with, yore parents must ’a’ been easy-goin’ folks, or they’d ’a’ strangled yuh early in life. To think of a man at yore advanced age havin’ lived all this time!”
“Advanced age!” snorted Sailor. “My gosh, to hear you talk you’d think I was sixty-five.”
“To hearyoutalk, I’d think yuh was a hundred, Sailor.”
“Some day,” said Sailor ominously, “I’m goin’ to take you out and whip yuh, Whisperin’.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? I’ve heard that lotsa times. You’ll probably wait until we both have to travel in wheel-chairs, and then settle it with a race instead of a fight.”
“What is all this argument about, anyway?” choked Nan.
“He started it,” said Whispering.
“I did not,” bristled Sailor. “You said⸺”
“Yeah? I said what?”
They looked blankly at each other for several moments.
“You better git me some wood, Sailor,” said Whispering. “That last yuh got was better’n usual, but the woodbox is empty.”
“Yeah—all right. It was some of that old corral that me and Len tore down. It’s danged hard to saw—but thasall right.”
The three cowboys rode to Lobo Wells, where Len made his few purchases, while Hashknife and Sleepy stabled their horses, and they met again at the Oasis. Johnny Harris and Archie Moon were in from the JP ranch, and Len introduced them to Hashknife and Sleepy.
The Oasis was busy that night. Harry Cole nodded coldly to them, as he went past them and entered his private room at the rear of the building. Johnny and Archie wanted to play pool; so they made it a three-handed game with Sleepy. After taking one drink, Len said he was going back to the ranch, and urged Hashknife to come out soon.
Breezy Hill dropped in for a few minutes, and Hashknife went back to the office with him.
“Somebody said that Len was in town,” said Breezy, after Hashknife had spoken about being out at the Box S. “Charley Prentice was around here early this evenin’, half drunk and half loco. I dunno whether he’s got a gun or not, but a man in his condition ain’t safe—not after what he tried to do to Len the other night.”
“Fit to be locked up,” agreed Hashknife. “Is he home now?”
“I think he is. I was up past his house a while ago, but everything was quiet. I kinda worry about that kid.”
And the kid, as Breezy termed him, was also worried. He and Minnie, the squaw, stayed close to the kitchen, while Prentice sprawled on a couch in the little living-room, talking to himself at intervals.
“We go ’way pretty soon,” decided Minnie. “No good stay here. Worse all time.”
“But where’ll we go, Minnie?” asked Larry anxiously.
“I dunno.”
Larry humped in a chair, resting his chin on his two hands. “I guess we’ll git along,” he decided. “Mebby I can git a job, Minnie.”
The fat, stoical face of the squaw did not change expression, as she said: “Sure.”
Suddenly there came a sharp knock on the front door; arat, tat, tat, as though some one struck the door with a hard object. They heard Prentice growl angrily and the couch creaked protestingly, as he heaved himself upright. Larry stepped to the doorway and watched Prentice pick up a gun from the table and go lurching toward the door. He fumbled for the knob, found it and yanked the door open.
Surging ahead he hooked the point of his left shoulder against the side of the doorway and stopped suddenly.
“This is Ayres, you dirty dog!” snapped a voice, and the next instant a gun spat fire twice from beside the little porch, while the echoes rattled back from the frame buildings across the street. Came the crash of a body falling on the porch—silence. Larry turned, white-faced, white-eyed, and stared at the squaw, whose lips were tightly shut, her eyes dilated a little.
Slowly she walked past Larry and went out to the porch. Larry didn’t follow her, but his wide eyes were glued on the front door, until she came back, softly closing the door behind her.
“Plenty dead,” she said slowly.
“Dead?” whispered Larry, almost choking over the word.
“Shot twice,” she said, nodding. “Die quick.”
“We—we ought to get the doctor,” faltered Larry.
“Doctor no good now; better get sheriff.”
The sheriff! Larry blinked painfully. What would he tell the sheriff? What could he tell the sheriff? Tell him what they had heard? He wanted to cry, but fought down the impulse. He came over close to the squaw and she looked queerly at him.
“Minnie,” he said, “you didn’t hear anythin’, didja?”
She stared at him for a moment. Then:
“White man law,” she said.
“White man law, Minnie?”
“One man kill—one man hang.”
“Oh! Minnie, you mean they’d hang—him?”
“White man law hang him sure.”
“You would tell ’em, Minnie?”
She looked at him for several moments, her round face as blank of expression as the wall behind her. Finally she spoke.
“Minnie not white man; Minnie Injun.”
“You won’t tell, Minnie?”
“You go tell sheriff; Minnie hear nothing.”
Without another word he bolted from the rear of the house and went running toward the street. The sound of the shots had been heard by a number of people, but as there had been no further disturbance they decided that some cowboy was merely working off some extra steam by shooting holes in the sky.
Hashknife and Breezy did not hear the shots, and were unprepared for the entrance of little Larry, choking for breath, as he stumbled into the sheriff’s office. Breathlessly he blurted out his story of the killing.
“Yuh say he’s dead?” asked Breezy. “Sure he’s dead, Larry?”
“I didn’t look,” panted Larry. “Minnie said he was.”
“Take it easy, son,” advised Hashknife calmly. “You say that somebody knocked on the door, and when Prentice went to the door this somebody shot him twice?”
Larry nodded quickly.
“Not a word spoken?” asked Hashknife.
“We—we didn’t hear nothin’.”
Ben Dillon was just coming from the Oasis as they went past, and he joined them. He had heard the two shots, but did not know just where they had been fired.
They found Charley Prentice sprawled on the little front porch, one arm dangling over the edge, lying on top of his own revolver. They secured a lamp from Minnie, placed it on a chair, so that the body was illuminated, and Breezy went after the doctor, who was county coroner. The sheriff questioned Minnie, and her story, told in monosyllables, was practically the same as Larry had told.
The coroner came and they examined the body. He had been hit twice, and either bullet would have killed him. No one offered any suggestions as to who might have killed Prentice, except Breezy’s remark: “I guess he was plumb scared to death that Len⸺” And then Breezy ended his remark with, “I didn’t think how that sounded.”
Hashknife was watching little Larry’s face in the lamplight, and he saw the little fellow look sharply at the squaw, who merely looked back at him with a blank stare. The boy sighed deeply and moistened his dry lips with his tongue.
They placed the body on a blanket and carried it down to the doctor’s office. Hashknife looked back towards the house, where the squaw stood in the doorway, holding the lamp shoulder-high, her other arm around the shoulders of little Larry.
Lobo Wells was just a little shocked over the killing of Charley Prentice. They did not call it murder, although it was obvious that Prentice had been murdered. Tongues did not wag in Lobo Wells, but every one felt that there was just one man in the country who might kill Charley Prentice.
The following morning Ben Dillon and Breezy Hill rode out to the Box S. Len was saddling a horse for Nan, and finished the job before coming up to the house to meet them. Nan was talking to them, but they had not told her about Prentice.
Len nodded and smiled as he tied her horse to the porch.
“You boys must have started early, didn’t yuh?” he asked.
“Pretty early, Len. Charley Prentice was killed last night.”
Len’s greenish-gray eyes opened a trifle wider as he looked from Ben to Breezy.
“What killed him?” he asked slowly.
“Couple of forty-fours, Len.”
“Yeah?” Len’s eyes did not waver. “What time was this?”
“After you left town—a while after. Just what time was it, Breezy?”
“I never looked,” confessed Breezy. “Yuh remember when yuh left, Len? Well, me and Hartley went over to the office, and it was ten or fifteen minutes later when Larry came to tell us.”
“Did Larry see it?” asked Len.
“Nope. Somebody knocked on the door, and when Prentice answered the knock, they shot him dead on his own porch.”
Nan was staring at Len, and he turned his head to look at her. “You were back early,” she said, as though it might help him.
He smiled thinly.
“Yeah, I wasn’t very late,” and to the sheriff: “Well, what do you think about it, Ben?”
The sheriff shrugged his broad shoulders.
“There’s no clue, Len. You didn’t see Charley last night, did yuh?”
“He was at home when Len came in,” said Breezy quickly.
“No, I didn’t see him,” said Len. “Shot with a forty-four, eh? That’s the size of my gun, Ben.”
“Mine, too,” said the sheriff glumly. “Prob’ly eight out of every ten punchers in this country pack the same size.”
“Don’t leave yuh much to work on, Ben,” said Len dryly.
“Not much. Well, I just wanted to tell yuh about it.”
“To give me a chance for a getaway?”
Ben Dillon looked straight at him, as he said:
“Ain’t nobody accused yuh, have they, Len?”
“Not in words.”
“Plenty of time to talk about a getaway when they do.”
“Thank yuh, Ben. I’ll come in and see yuh.”
“All right. Pleased to have seen yuh again, ma’am.”
They lifted their hats and rode away. Len leaned a shoulder against the porch and watched them disappear down the road. His lips were shut tightly as he turned and looked at Nan.
“You didn’t do that, Len,” she said.
“That part of it don’t matter,” he said bitterly. “It’s what people think. Sure, I killed him. I might as well say I did, because I can’t prove I didn’t.”
She came closer to him, searching his tensed features.
“But you didn’t really kill him, Len; you couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t I, Nan?” He laughed shortly. Suddenly he sobered, his eyes thoughtful. “I forgot about the boy,” he said, as though to himself. “It’s tough for him—mighty tough, Nan.” He turned quickly. “Do yuh mind if we don’t ride this mornin’? I’d like to go to town—to Lobo Wells.”
“It’s perfectly all right, Len.”
“That’s kind of yuh. I guess I better go now.”
He turned toward the stable.
“I want you to know that I believe in you, Len,” she said.
He stopped, but did not look around.
“That’s mighty sweet of yuh, Nan—I’ll remember it!”
He saddled his horse quickly, rode away to Lobo Wells, arriving but a few minutes behind the sheriff and deputy. He tied his horse to the Oasis hitchrack, but did not enter the saloon. The sheriff had gone to the doctor’s office, but Hashknife and Breezy were in the sheriff’s office and saw Len ride in.
“Whatcha suppose he wants?” grunted Breezy. “Somethin’ must have struck him real sudden.”
They came to the doorway and watched Len cross the street and stop in front of Amos Baggs’s office, where Baggs was just coming out.
The Lobo Wells lawyer eyed Len suspiciously, but there was no anger in Len’s eyes.
“I jist wanted to ask yuh a few questions,” said Len. The lawyer nodded shortly, remembering that Len had prevented Nan from signing that thousand-dollar cheque.
“Charley Prentice never adopted my son, did he, Baggs?”
Baggs’ face twisted thoughtfully.
“No-o-o,” he drawled. “No, he never adopted him, Len.”
“Nothin’ to prevent me from taking that boy, is there?” asked Len.
Baggs walked to the edge of the sidewalk, spat thoughtfully and turned to Len.
“Nothing legal.”
“Meanin’ what, Baggs?”
“There still remains the moral aspect of the thing.”
Len’s eyes hardened.
“Meanin’ that I ain’t fit to take him, Baggs?”
“In plain words: no, you are not, Ayres.”
Splat!
Len’s open right palm landed on the lawyer’s left ear, with every ounce of his lithe body behind it, and Mr. Baggs went sideways off the sidewalk, landing on his shoulders in the dusty street.
For a moment Len looked down at him, rubbed the hot palm of his hand on his thigh, and walked on up the sidewalk, as though nothing had happened. Baggs struggled to his feet, mouthing profanity, swearing dire threats, while Breezy fairly hugged Hashknife in the office door, chuckling with unholy glee.
Baggs climbed back on the sidewalk, trying to shake the dust off his clothes, shaking a fist at Len between swipes at his garments. Then he turned and came down toward the sheriff’s office, half trotting in his haste. Breezy shoved Hashknife back from the doorway and locked the door.
“Nobody home,” he grinned at Hashknife, who nodded. Baggs tried the door, knocked loudly, swore disgustedly, and went back to his office.
“Probably wants to swear out a warrant for assault,” grinned Breezy, unlocking the door. “Give him time to cool off, and he won’t feel so bad about it. I wonder where Len went.”
He wasn’t in sight on the street, because he had gone up to Prentice’s house and was knocking on the door. Minnie came to answer the knock, and behind her was little Larry. Len looked at the expressionless face of the squaw and then at the face of his son.
“I heard what happened last night,” he said slowly, “so I—want yuh to come out to the ranch with me, Larry.”
The boy’s face lighted up for just a flash—and then he remembered. He came past the Indian woman, came very close to his father, his hands behind him, but did not look up.
“Don’tcha want to come with me, Larry?” asked Len.
“I want to come, but I can’t,” he said.
“Why can’t yuh come, son?”
The boy took a deep breath, but he was game.
“If you hadn’t done that—last night,” he said.
“Done what, Larry? Look up at me. Done what?”
“What you done.”
Len looked at the squaw, whose eyes were fastened on his face.
“We not tell,” she said firmly.
Len’s eyes shifted to the boy.
“Do you think I killed Prentice?” he asked.
“We won’t tell. Me and Minnie will never tell, will we, Minnie?”
“Not by damn sight,” she replied inelegantly but firmly.
Len turned slowly around and walked away, lips compressed, his eyes staring at the ground. He didn’t understand, except that they believed he had killed Prentice and that they would not tell. The boy had refused to go with him, because he had killed a man. Len was dazed, wondering even when he went back to the hitchrack and mounted his horse. Hashknife and Sleepy were crossing the street and spoke to him, but he did not see them.
He rode back to the ranch, stabled his horse and sat down on the porch, trying to think. Nan came out and tried to talk with him, but he would not answer; so she sat down in a chair and waited for him to come out of his coma.
It was probably ten minutes later before he lifted his head and looked around. His eyes were bloodshot and Nan had never seen him look so old and tired. He tried to smile, but it was but a grimace.
“Nan,” he said slowly, “do you know how many people there are in the world?”
“Millions and millions, Len.”
“Funny, ain’t it?”
“What is funny about it, Len?”
“That out of all that millions of people, you are the only one who—do you still believe I didn’t kill Prentice?”
“I know you didn’t, Len.”
“That’s fine.”
He clasped his hands around his knees and looked out across the Broken Hills.
“When I was in the penitentiary I used to long for the hills and the old cow-towns, Nan. I dreamed of ’em every night. There was the sunrise in the cow-camp, with waddies saddlin’ cold broncs, the camp cook and his big black pot of coffee. There was the round-up. Hard-ridin’ days; wild nights, when it was all over. The dances at the ranch-house. I could lay there on my bunk and hear the fiddlers and the caller. I could laze along through the hills, where the wind riffled the tall grass, straddlin’ a dream horse, and see the cattle lift their drippin’ jaws from the water-holes. Night after night I’ve dreamed it all over, waitin’ for the day when I’d be free to come back to it all. But it ain’t like my dreams, Nan. I thought I was bad off in the pen, but I—I wish I’d stayed.”
“You wish you hadn’t come back, Len?”
“Yeah. I reckon I’ve lost faith in folks—all of ’em.”
“But you haven’t lost faith in me, Len.”
He looked closely at her for several moments, as he got to his feet.
“Mebby I’ll tell yuh about it sometime,” he said.
It was the same enigmatic answer he had given her before, as he walked down to the corral, where Sailor had just ridden in. Nan closed her eyes and tried to think what Len had meant. What had happened to him in town to cause him to come back in this frame of mind, she wondered?
He talked with Sailor for a while, but did not come back to the house with him. He sat down on a box beside the corral fence, giving no sign of life other than an occasional puff of cigarette smoke.
Nan heard Whispering and Sailor arguing about it in the kitchen.
“He ain’t drunk,” declared Whispering. “Yo’re crazy.”
“Well, he acts drunk. Look at his eyes, will yuh?”
“Aw, he wasn’t in town long enough to git drunk. Go and git me some wood, Sailor.”
“Well, if he ain’t drunk, whatsa matter with him?”
“Prob’ly bilious.”
“Yeah, that’s reasonable; yore cookin’ would do that.”
“That ain’t biliousness—that’s yore danged disposition. Nothin’ short of a pistol whippin’ will ever cure that.”
“Thasso? Mebby you think you can cure me?”
“I don’t want yuh cured, you old squint-eyed porkypine. Go git me that wood and stop arguin’. You make me sick.”
The inquest frightened little Larry. He didn’t know what it was all about, but he managed to tell the same story he had told Hashknife and Breezy. Minnie’s story was the same. There was no evidence to show who had fired the fatal shots; so the jury brought in the usual verdict.
Amos Baggs came to see the sheriff following the inquest, and complained against Len Ayres for knocking him down the previous afternoon. Hashknife and Sleepy were with the sheriff when Baggs called.
“It seems to me that yo’re a grown man, Baggs,” said the fat sheriff. “If anythin’, yo’re bigger than Ayres.”
“Do you think I’m going to fight him?” demanded Baggs.
“Well, yuh didn’t; so what can yuh do about it?”
“Do you think I’m going to let him batter me around?”
“Say, what do yuh think this is—a guessin’ contest, Baggs? What do I know about what you’ll do and what yuh won’t do? Yuh wasn’t aimin’ to have Len arrested for slappin’ yuh, was yuh?”
“It was plain assault.”
“Yea-a-a-ah, I s’pose it was; very plain. But it ain’t up to me, Baggs. Get the judge to swear out a warrant and I’ll serve it.”
Baggs was mad. He even glared at Hashknife, who grinned at him openly. He walked to the door, but turned to fire a parting shot:
“I suppose you don’t know who killed Charley Prentice.”
“Well,” said the sheriff wearily, “I didn’t do it, because I’m the sheriff; and you didn’t because you ain’t got the nerve.”
“That’s supposed to be a smart answer, isn’t it, Dillon?”
“It’s the right answer to a foolish question, Baggs.”
After Baggs had left the office, the sheriff declared: “I don’t like that feller.”
“I guess he knows it,” grinned Hashknife. “Wasn’t he the prosecutor who sent Ayres to the pen?”
“Yeah, and he shore piled it on a-plenty. I thought Len would kill him when he came back, but I guess the pen takes all the killin’ ideas out of a man. Nobody ever wants to go back.”
“Do you think Ayres really cached a lot of that money he stole?”
The sheriff laughed shortly.
“I suppose every man in this county has asked himself that same question, Hartley. Nobody but Len could prove it. They say he was the one who pulled the jobs, and he must have done somethin’ with the money. I think some folks had a sneakin’ suspicion that his wife knew where it was. But I don’t think she did.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Yeah, y’betcha. Prettiest woman around here.”
“How soon did she marry Prentice after Len was convicted?”
“Well, she got her divorce right away, and they was married inside of six months.”
“She must have known him before Len was sent up.”
“Oh, shore. They’d been friends a long time.”
“Len and Prentice?”
“Prentice and the woman. Oh, I suppose him and Len was good enough friends.”
“You wasn’t sheriff at that time, was yuh?”
“Nope. Harry Cole was the sheriff. Afterward he bought out the Oasis Saloon. He’s made good money over there.”
“What’ll become of the kid now?”
“Larry? I dunno, Hartley; never thought about him. Say, that is somethin’ to think about. Mebbe Len wants him. I’ll have to find out about that right away, because I don’t suppose Prentice left anythin’. Anyway, it probably can’t be touched until the estate is settled up. I’ll talk with Grant, at the bank, and see what he knows about Prentice’s finances.”
The next day they buried Charley Prentice in the little cemetery on the slope behind the town. The countryside came to pay homage to a man they had known as a good citizen. His sudden fall from grace meant nothing against a good record. Hashknife and Sleepy did not intend to go to the funeral, although the sheriff asked them to go with him.
They were sitting in front of a store, as the funeral came down a short side street and wended its way out of town. It was not over a quarter of a mile to the cemetery. The wagons, buckboards and riders were still turning the corner on to the main street, when Len Ayres rode in. He drew up in front of the Oasis and watched the procession.
And as the last vehicle turned the corner, he spurred his horse and fell in behind.
“Can yuh imagine that?” snorted Sleepy. “He’s goin’ to the funeral!”
Hashknife looked seriously at Sleepy and got to his feet.
“I reckon we’ll go along, pardner. C’mon.”
The cortege moved slowly, so they had no difficulty in reaching the graveyard in time. Len tied his horse to a fence and mixed in with the crowd around the grave. Hashknife and Sleepy managed to get to a vantage point where they could watch everything. Little Larry was the sole mourner, but he was too interested in the crowd to be much of a success.
They saw Len push his way in close to the grave, where he stood all during the ceremony, paying no attention to any one. In fact, he was the centre of interest, although he seemed unconscious of it. Amos Baggs stood across the grave from him, and if his expression was any criterion of his feelings, he was sorry that it wasn’t Len’s funeral.
Len stayed in the one spot until the crowd began to disperse, when he went slowly back to his horse and rode away. Breezy met Hashknife and Sleepy at the fence, bursting for a chance to talk.
“Can yuh ee-magine that?” the deputy demanded. “Stood right there and watched ’em plant Charley! That’s cold nerve, Hartley.”
“Do yuh suppose he was merely tryin’ to show his nerve?” asked Hashknife. “Yuh know it don’t take nerve to attend the funeral of a man you’ve never hurt in any way.”
Breezy tipped his hat over one eye as he scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Yeah, there’s somethin’ in that, too. Lordy, it shore gave the folks a shock. Amos Baggs almost fell in the hole—and I reached for a shovel. It ain’t right to say it, but I’ve always hankered for a chance to pat him in the face with a shovel. He makes me mad, jist to look at him. Wait till I git my horse, and I’ll walk back with yuh.”
They found Larry at the sheriff’s office, talking with Dillon, when they came back. The sheriff was trying to find out whether any one had made plans for the boy. He seemed just a little bewildered, but grinned at Hashknife.
“I’m still waitin’ for the wind to come along,” he said.
“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife. “When she comes, we’ll shore fly that kite, Larry.”
“Y’betcha.”
“I had a talk with Grant,” said the sheriff, “and as far as he knows, Prentice didn’t leave a dollar. Gambled quite a lot, and the luck usually went against him. I dunno what about this boy.”
“I’ll betcha I know,” grinned Breezy. “Larry would like to go out to the Box S and live with his dad.”
Larry looked earnestly at Breezy for several moments, but finally shook his head.
“Yuh don’t?” Breezy was astonished.
“No, I don’t want to go out there,” he said.
“I guess I better go home to Minnie.”
He walked out of the office and Breezy whistled softly.
“Ain’t that funny? Why, the other day he was shore strong for Len. I don’t savvy what changed him so quick.”
“Was he very fond of Prentice?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t believe he was,” answered the sheriff. “I don’t believe Prentice cared much for him. Yuh don’t suppose the kid thinks that Len killed Prentice, do yuh? That might make him afraid of Len. Somebody might have told him that Len was the one who done the shootin’.”
“That would be a dirty trick,” said Hashknife quickly.
“Dirty tricks have been done,” smiled Breezy. “I wouldn’t put it past Amos Baggs.”
Nobody reproved Breezy for that statement. But Hashknife wasn’t satisfied. He left the office and made his way up to the Prentice home, where he found Larry in the yard. “No wind yet,” said the boy. “I reckon we won’t get any to-day.”
“Not much chance,” smiled Hashknife, leaning on the fence. “I wanted to ask yuh a question, Larry.”
“To ask me a question, Mr. Hartley?”
“Man to man, Larry.”
“What is it?”
“Did somebody tell you that Len Ayres killed Prentice?”
The boy blinked quickly and turned his head away.
“Just man to man, Larry,” urged Hashknife softly.
Larry shook his head.
“Nobody told me,” he said. “Not a soul, Mr. Hartley.”
“You didn’t even hear anybody hint it?”
“Do they think he killed Mr. Prentice?”
“Who do you think killed him, Larry?” countered Hashknife.
“I don’t know who killed him.”
“And you never even heard anybody hint that your father might have killed Prentice?”
After a moment of sober thought the boy shook his head.
“I didn’t know they thought he did,” said Larry.
“Thank yuh for answerin’ my question, Larry.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Hartley. I hope we get some wind.”
“Yeah, I shore hope so. So long, Larry.”
“So long, Mr. Hartley.”
Hashknife went away unsatisfied. There was some reason why Larry did not want to go to Len; and Hashknife would never be comfortable until he had discovered who shot Charley Prentice—and why. He felt that Len Ayres was perfectly capable of killing a man, but he did not think that Ayres would ever commit murder.
He talked it over that night with Sleepy, but his grin-faced partner had no ideas on the subject, except the local thought that Len had killed him.
“Some folks think he done the right thing,” said Sleepy.
“Yuh can’t justify murder, Sleepy.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to. Anyway, it wasn’t my funeral.”
“Did Len strike you as a man who would call a man to his door and kill him?”
“I dunno, Hashknife. Readin’ human bein’s is like dopin’ out a race horse from a form-chart. They never run the way they should. I’d hate to think he would, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. What’s yore opinion?”
“The key to the whole thing is this, Sleepy: find the man who wanted to kill Prentice.”
“Yeah, I know that. But Prentice was well liked by most everybody. He never hurt nobody—except Len Ayres. Ask anybody and they’ll tell yuh the same thing. I’ve talked with a lot of ’em.”
“That’s what made it easy for somebody else to kill him, and get away with it, Sleepy.”
Sleepy laughed softly.
“Hashknife, yo’re funny. If you seen a man shoot another man, you’d prove that somebody else done it.”
“And get a confession from ’em, Sleepy.”
“And they’d be guilty. Go ahead, but don’t ask me to think. All I’m good for is to burn powder, anyway.”
“There ain’t much to think about—yet.”
“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “yo’re young yet.”
The next day Whispering made out a grub list, and Nan rode to town with him in a lumber-wagon. She had talked things over with Len and he had advised her to get some cheques at the bank to pay for the grocery list.
“Even before the will is probated, they’ve got to allow enough money to keep the ranch goin’,” he told her. “It may not be exactly accordin’ to law, but that won’t matter.”
Nan didn’t want to meet Amos Baggs. She hadn’t seen him since she refused to sign the thousand-dollar cheque for him. The Arizona sun had changed her complexion to an olive tan, and she might easily be mistaken for a native of the range.
They were obliged to cross the railroad tracks near the little sun-baked depot, and as a train was approaching, Whispering drew up the team some distance away. The train did not tarry long at Lobo Wells, and as it drew away Whispering whipped up the team.
They jolted across the tracks and headed down the main street. A man dressed in black, one arm in a sling, was going down the wooden sidewalk from the depot, carrying a valise in his free hand, and as they came abreast of him, he turned his head sufficiently for Nan to see his face.
For a moment she grasped the side of the seat to steady herself, turning her head away quickly. Her heart seemed to come up in her throat.
It was Jack Pollock, the San Francisco gambler! Madge’s friend! He was the last man she had ever expected to see again, and the last one she wished to see. Her mind was in a whirl, as the team drew up in front of the store. Whispering looked at her and put his hand on her arm.
“What’s the matter—too much sun?” he asked.
“I—I’m all right,” she said jerkily.
“Yo’re mighty white, ma’am. I’ll help yuh down and git yuh in the shade. A derned old wagon is the hottest place on earth, anyway. We’ll git some water for yuh.”
She walked shakily into the store, where Whispering secured a cup of cold water for her. The proprietor of the store was solicitous, but helpless.
“Oh, I’m all right now,” she said weakly.
“You set right here,” advised Whispering. “I’ll go up to the bank and git them cheques, and I’ll tell Grant about it. I know him well. You jist take it easy. Give Jim Albers here yore grub list, and he’ll fix it up while I’m away.”
Nan was more than thankful to Whispering. She didn’t want to go out on the street. It was cool in that dark corner of the store, and she wanted time to think. What was Jack Pollock doing in Lobo Wells, she wondered? Baggs had spoken about him, and Nan realised that Pollock was the one who was going to send Madge Allan to Lobo Wells to take over the Box S property.