Hashknife Hartley instinctively liked Roaring Rigby. There was something pathetically earnest about this new sheriff of Black Horse County, who was willing to admit that he knew little about his duties and limitations.Roaring had ridden back to the Big 4 ranch with Slim Regan and Mark Clayton. He shook hands gravely with Franklyn Moran and with Hashknife, and accepted Moran’s invitation to stay all night. Regan had told Roaring about the dead steers at the Hot Creek coulee.“That’s Mose Conley’s idea of retaliation,” declared Moran, as they sat together in the main room of the Big 4 ranch-house, the air blue with tobacco smoke.“Mm-m-m-m-m,” mused Roaring, “kinda funny thing t’ do. What head would that come under, Moran? It ain’t rustlin’. He didn’t steal your cattle.”“Wanton destruction!” snapped Moran.“They was inside his fence.”“He cut the fence himself.”“Mm-m-m-m-m. Hard to prove, Moran.”“Even that doesn’t need proof. He shot the animals. Any jury on earth would convict him.”“Any Black Horse jury would convict Mose Conley of anythin’. Just bring your charge.”“Well, he brought it on himself, Roarin’, when he fenced in the only open winter water-hole in the country.”“It’s his land.”“I can see where Conley’s got one friend.”“Two,” corrected Roaring. “Me and Jimmy Moran.”That was a body punch to Franklyn Moran. He got up from his chair and announced that he was going to bed.“We’ll see about those steers in the morning,” he said.Hashknife slept in the ranch-house that night. He tried not to work up any interest in the squabble. He did not care particularly for Franklyn Moran, who was half-Easterner, half-Westemer, and inclined to be proud of his own importance.Moran had told Hashknife much of the story during their ride from Sibley Junction. He had admitted that he double-crossed Moses Conley in a mining deal, because he was unwilling to match his money against Conley’s knowledge. He told Hashknife that he had bought up several prospects which turned out well. In fact, these prospects were responsible for his fortune.He also explained to Hashknife his reasons for haste in coming to Turquoise City—to break off Jimmy’s engagement to a half-breed girl, who happened to be Conley’s daughter.“That’s another one of Conley’s ideas of getting even with me,” he told Hashknife.“He must kinda hate you,” observed Hashknife.But Hashknife was really more interested in the fact that the sheriff of Black Horse had been frightened into resigning his office by the gambling element of Turquoise City; not that it made any difference to Hashknife, but it was in his blood to seek the reasons for things of this kind.That was one of the reasons for Sleepy Stevens’ outburst against trouble, when Hashknife and Moran rode away from him at Sibley Junction. Sleepy knew what this word “trouble” would mean to Hashknife.It would mean that the lean-faced cowboy would not rest until it was all straightened out, regardless of the cost. Since the day when George Hartley had ridden in at the ranch that gave him his nickname, he and Sleepy Dave Stevens had been inseparable. They had cast their lots together and had become wanderers of the open places, going nowhere in particular, but always heading for the next hill, just to see what might be on the other side.Hashknife had been born with an analytical mind. Having had little schooling and having been born in the cattle country, he naturally became a cowpuncher, a rider of bad bronchos—a top hand with cattle. But there was always the urge to follow the trail of trouble, and when he found Sleepy Stevens, blue-eyed, grin-wrinkled, always looking beyond the distant ranges, they went away together, up and down the land, untangling the mysteries of range trouble, seeking no remuneration, asking no thanks.In many places they were marked men, but this did not stop them from coming back. Life had made them confirmed fatalists, knowing that nothing could happen to them until their time came.The West did not list them as gunmen; but strangely enough they had gone through many gun battles unscathed, when men faster with guns had gone down. Theirs was the psychology of being in the right.“Run when you’re wrong; shoot when you’re right,” said Hashknife. “That’s why some of these fast gunmen get killed off’—they shoot when they’re wrong.”Sleepy Stevens did not analyze anything. He followed Hashknife dumbly, filled with arguments against getting into trouble, deriding Hashknife’s ability, vocally fearful of getting killed; and yet he inwardly delighted over it all, anxiously waiting for somebody to start shooting.The following morning after breakfast, Moran, Regan, Roaring and Hashknife rode away from the Big 4 ranch. Hashknife led Sleepy’s horse, as he meant to meet the train at Turquoise City that afternoon.Regan led the way down to the cut fence at the Conley ranch, and they rode through to Hot Creek. As they came out along the lava beds, high above the creek bottom, they could easily count the eight head of dead steers. Moran swore bitterly against Moses Conley and promised him plenty of trouble for this work.They circled the lava beds and came down into the bottom. Moran had explained to Hashknife about this warm spring, and Hashknife could see the value of it as a winter shelter and watering place.“We all used it,” said Slim Regan. “Why, you could run a thousand head of cattle in here ahead of a blizzard, and they’d stand it fine and dandy. This country is cold in the winter. The other streams freeze to the bottom.”“Why don’tcha make some kind of a deal with Conley?” asked Hashknife.“Can’t be done; he won’t sell out. Moran offered him more than it’s worth, but he won’t sell. The 7AL has tried to buy it, but didn’t have any luck. The old fool won’t listen to money.”“Hey!” blurted Roaring. “Look at that animal!”They had ridden up close to the nearest dead steer. On its shoulder was a spot about a foot square, where the hide had been stripped off.“The dirty old pup!” wailed Moran. “He’s skinned out the brands. But that won’t help him. Everybody knows we brand on the left shoulder.”“So does the Stumblin’ K,” said Roaring thoughtfully.“Huh!” Moran stared at Roaring. “Is that so! I suppose that squirt of a kid will claim the carcasses, eh? Swear he owned ’em, eh? But you and Clayton saw ’em, Slim. You can swear they had Big 4’s, can’tcha?”“Shore,” nodded Slim thoughtfully.He remembered that he and Clayton had told Jimmy about it last night. Now he wished that he had kept his mouth shut.“What are you thinkin’ about?” asked Moran.Slim jerked slightly and adjusted his Stetson carefully.“I was just thinkin’ how much gall some folks have.”“Oh, Conley’s got plenty of it, Slim. He always did have. Well, what about it, Roarin’? Goin’ to arrest Conley?”“When you swear out a warrant, Moran. Pers’nally, I don’t see anythin’ to arrest him for. Eight dead steers without any brands don’t mean nothin’ to me. Lotsa folks around here has white-faced cattle. If you swear out a warrant for Mose Conley, I can’t help servin’ it.”“I can prove ownership of these dead steers.”“You’ll have a hell of a time!”“Maybe. Oh, let’s go to town. This makes me sore; but what I’d like to know is this: Why didn’t Conley cut the brands off before you and Clayton saw the animals?”“That wouldn’t have been any revenge,” said Slim.“No, that’s true. I’ve a notion to go over and have it out with Mose Conley right now.”“Hop to it,” grinned Slim. “You can shore have my share of it. My gun and Mark’s gun are still there, so you might ask him for ’em.”Moran spat out the stump of his cigar and picked up his reins.“I reckon it can wait,” he said. “I’ll see him later.”They rode back through the cut fence, instead of going down through Conley’s gate. They rode to Turquoise City.
Hashknife Hartley instinctively liked Roaring Rigby. There was something pathetically earnest about this new sheriff of Black Horse County, who was willing to admit that he knew little about his duties and limitations.
Roaring had ridden back to the Big 4 ranch with Slim Regan and Mark Clayton. He shook hands gravely with Franklyn Moran and with Hashknife, and accepted Moran’s invitation to stay all night. Regan had told Roaring about the dead steers at the Hot Creek coulee.
“That’s Mose Conley’s idea of retaliation,” declared Moran, as they sat together in the main room of the Big 4 ranch-house, the air blue with tobacco smoke.
“Mm-m-m-m-m,” mused Roaring, “kinda funny thing t’ do. What head would that come under, Moran? It ain’t rustlin’. He didn’t steal your cattle.”
“Wanton destruction!” snapped Moran.
“They was inside his fence.”
“He cut the fence himself.”
“Mm-m-m-m-m. Hard to prove, Moran.”
“Even that doesn’t need proof. He shot the animals. Any jury on earth would convict him.”
“Any Black Horse jury would convict Mose Conley of anythin’. Just bring your charge.”
“Well, he brought it on himself, Roarin’, when he fenced in the only open winter water-hole in the country.”
“It’s his land.”
“I can see where Conley’s got one friend.”
“Two,” corrected Roaring. “Me and Jimmy Moran.”
That was a body punch to Franklyn Moran. He got up from his chair and announced that he was going to bed.
“We’ll see about those steers in the morning,” he said.
Hashknife slept in the ranch-house that night. He tried not to work up any interest in the squabble. He did not care particularly for Franklyn Moran, who was half-Easterner, half-Westemer, and inclined to be proud of his own importance.
Moran had told Hashknife much of the story during their ride from Sibley Junction. He had admitted that he double-crossed Moses Conley in a mining deal, because he was unwilling to match his money against Conley’s knowledge. He told Hashknife that he had bought up several prospects which turned out well. In fact, these prospects were responsible for his fortune.
He also explained to Hashknife his reasons for haste in coming to Turquoise City—to break off Jimmy’s engagement to a half-breed girl, who happened to be Conley’s daughter.
“That’s another one of Conley’s ideas of getting even with me,” he told Hashknife.
“He must kinda hate you,” observed Hashknife.
But Hashknife was really more interested in the fact that the sheriff of Black Horse had been frightened into resigning his office by the gambling element of Turquoise City; not that it made any difference to Hashknife, but it was in his blood to seek the reasons for things of this kind.
That was one of the reasons for Sleepy Stevens’ outburst against trouble, when Hashknife and Moran rode away from him at Sibley Junction. Sleepy knew what this word “trouble” would mean to Hashknife.
It would mean that the lean-faced cowboy would not rest until it was all straightened out, regardless of the cost. Since the day when George Hartley had ridden in at the ranch that gave him his nickname, he and Sleepy Dave Stevens had been inseparable. They had cast their lots together and had become wanderers of the open places, going nowhere in particular, but always heading for the next hill, just to see what might be on the other side.
Hashknife had been born with an analytical mind. Having had little schooling and having been born in the cattle country, he naturally became a cowpuncher, a rider of bad bronchos—a top hand with cattle. But there was always the urge to follow the trail of trouble, and when he found Sleepy Stevens, blue-eyed, grin-wrinkled, always looking beyond the distant ranges, they went away together, up and down the land, untangling the mysteries of range trouble, seeking no remuneration, asking no thanks.
In many places they were marked men, but this did not stop them from coming back. Life had made them confirmed fatalists, knowing that nothing could happen to them until their time came.
The West did not list them as gunmen; but strangely enough they had gone through many gun battles unscathed, when men faster with guns had gone down. Theirs was the psychology of being in the right.
“Run when you’re wrong; shoot when you’re right,” said Hashknife. “That’s why some of these fast gunmen get killed off’—they shoot when they’re wrong.”
Sleepy Stevens did not analyze anything. He followed Hashknife dumbly, filled with arguments against getting into trouble, deriding Hashknife’s ability, vocally fearful of getting killed; and yet he inwardly delighted over it all, anxiously waiting for somebody to start shooting.
The following morning after breakfast, Moran, Regan, Roaring and Hashknife rode away from the Big 4 ranch. Hashknife led Sleepy’s horse, as he meant to meet the train at Turquoise City that afternoon.
Regan led the way down to the cut fence at the Conley ranch, and they rode through to Hot Creek. As they came out along the lava beds, high above the creek bottom, they could easily count the eight head of dead steers. Moran swore bitterly against Moses Conley and promised him plenty of trouble for this work.
They circled the lava beds and came down into the bottom. Moran had explained to Hashknife about this warm spring, and Hashknife could see the value of it as a winter shelter and watering place.
“We all used it,” said Slim Regan. “Why, you could run a thousand head of cattle in here ahead of a blizzard, and they’d stand it fine and dandy. This country is cold in the winter. The other streams freeze to the bottom.”
“Why don’tcha make some kind of a deal with Conley?” asked Hashknife.
“Can’t be done; he won’t sell out. Moran offered him more than it’s worth, but he won’t sell. The 7AL has tried to buy it, but didn’t have any luck. The old fool won’t listen to money.”
“Hey!” blurted Roaring. “Look at that animal!”
They had ridden up close to the nearest dead steer. On its shoulder was a spot about a foot square, where the hide had been stripped off.
“The dirty old pup!” wailed Moran. “He’s skinned out the brands. But that won’t help him. Everybody knows we brand on the left shoulder.”
“So does the Stumblin’ K,” said Roaring thoughtfully.
“Huh!” Moran stared at Roaring. “Is that so! I suppose that squirt of a kid will claim the carcasses, eh? Swear he owned ’em, eh? But you and Clayton saw ’em, Slim. You can swear they had Big 4’s, can’tcha?”
“Shore,” nodded Slim thoughtfully.
He remembered that he and Clayton had told Jimmy about it last night. Now he wished that he had kept his mouth shut.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” asked Moran.
Slim jerked slightly and adjusted his Stetson carefully.
“I was just thinkin’ how much gall some folks have.”
“Oh, Conley’s got plenty of it, Slim. He always did have. Well, what about it, Roarin’? Goin’ to arrest Conley?”
“When you swear out a warrant, Moran. Pers’nally, I don’t see anythin’ to arrest him for. Eight dead steers without any brands don’t mean nothin’ to me. Lotsa folks around here has white-faced cattle. If you swear out a warrant for Mose Conley, I can’t help servin’ it.”
“I can prove ownership of these dead steers.”
“You’ll have a hell of a time!”
“Maybe. Oh, let’s go to town. This makes me sore; but what I’d like to know is this: Why didn’t Conley cut the brands off before you and Clayton saw the animals?”
“That wouldn’t have been any revenge,” said Slim.
“No, that’s true. I’ve a notion to go over and have it out with Mose Conley right now.”
“Hop to it,” grinned Slim. “You can shore have my share of it. My gun and Mark’s gun are still there, so you might ask him for ’em.”
Moran spat out the stump of his cigar and picked up his reins.
“I reckon it can wait,” he said. “I’ll see him later.”
They rode back through the cut fence, instead of going down through Conley’s gate. They rode to Turquoise City.