Ryker grinned sourly as he walked away, going to the Black Horse Saloon. He found Hashknife and Regan at the bar. Regan invited him to have a drink; and he introduced Hashknife.“Ryker is the prosecuting attorney,” explained Regan.“He’s the jigger who proves they’re guilty, whether they are or not, eh?” laughed Hashknife.“Something like that,” smiled Ryker, accepting the drink.“You’re not part of the law that’s been ordered out of the county, are you?” asked Hashknife.“Not yet. No, they’re not on my trail, it seems.”Regan nudged Hashknife sharply. English Ed was coming up to them, and Regan didn’t want any arguments started. The gambler looked sharply at Hashknife, when Regan introduced him.“Holmes owns this place,” explained Regan.“Uh-huh. Quite a place you got, Holmes,” observed Hashknife. “Lot nicer than bootleggin’ hooch to the Flatheads, eh?”Holmes started quickly, and for once he forgot to use his poker-face. But he recovered quickly and stared at Hashknife.“I didn’t quite get that,” he said.Hashknife looked at him keenly, his level gray eyes boring into the gambler’s face.“Mebby I’m mistaken,” he said slowly. “There was a Holmes that bootlegged hooch to the Flatheads up in Montana a few years ago. He was a remittance man from Canada. Yeah, his name was Ed Holmes. I guess you’re not the man.”“I know I’m not,” denied Holmes. “I never was up in Montana. I’m not sure I got your name.”“Hartley. My friends call me Hashknife.”“I see, you’re a stranger here. Going to stay long?”“I dunno. I’ll buy a drink.”“No; this is my treat,” said the gambler, motioning the bartender. They drank a “good luck” to the house, and Holmes excused himself.“Glad to see you any time,” he told Hashknife. “Make this your headquarters.”“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife; he watched the gambler cross the big room to a poker table.“Jist how near right was you about that Flathead deal?” queried Regan.Hashknife laughed, but did not reply.“You are probably mistaken,” said Ryker softly.“Is that a legal opinion, or man to man?” asked Hashknife.“Merely my opinion,” said Ryker seriously. “Now, I’ll buy.”Hashknife shook his head quickly.“Nope, I’ve had enough, pardner. Knowin’ when to quit is a failin’ I’ve always had.”They left the bar and went to the sidewalk, where they met Kent Cutter and two of his men. Regan introduced Hashknife to them, and Cutter offered to buy a drink, but Hashknife and Slim declined. Not so Ryker. He went in with them, while Hashknife and Regan walked to the depot to see whether the train would be in on time.The few drinks had made Ryker expansive. He wanted to tell Cutter what Hartley had said to English Ed, but English Ed joined them before Ryker had a chance to do much talking.“Where did that fellow come from?” demanded English Ed.“He brought Frank Moran from Sibley Junction,” explained Ryker. “His partner rented his horse to Moran, and the partner will be in on the train today.”“Looks kinda forked,” observed Cutter indifferently.“He is,” said English Ed. “That’s Hashknife Hartley. He’s a cattle detective.”“Oh-ho-o-o!” grunted Cutter. “Association man, eh?”Ryker grinned half-drunkenly.“He knew you, didn’t he, Holmes?”“That’s my business. You keep out of it.”“That’s all right,” grinned Ryker.“What’s he doin’ here?” wondered Cutter.“Maybe Franklyn Moran knows.”“There’s been no rustlin’ around here, Ed.”“What about those dead steers at Conley’s?”“Pshaw! They were killed yesterday. I think he just happened to come here. Mebby he—” Cutter hesitated— “Mebby he came here to investigate the killin’ of Joe Mallette.”English Ed squinted at himself in the back-bar mirror.“I don’t know who would hire him to investigate that.”“Conley might,” suggested Ryker.“That’s true enough,” agreed Cutter. “If Hartley is an Association detective, like you say, Ed, he’d have a slick way of comin’ into a place, wouldn’t he? Detectives don’t usually have a brass band and a lot of banners.”“I suppose that’s true,” nodded the gambler.Ryker laughed outright and reached for the bottle on the bar.“I wonder if Hartley has seen Conley. The old man is out at his house with a Winchester in his hands, and he swears he’ll kill the first man that comes on the place.”“How do you know?” demanded Cutter.“His own daughter told me awhile ago.”“Yeah, and he’ll do it, too,” said Cutter. “I’m shore glad I don’t owe him any visit.”Mack Ort, one of English Ed’s gamblers, came up to the bar, nodding to the three men. Ort was a slim, dark-faced man of about thirty-five, reputed to be a gunman. Little was known of him in Turquoise City, except that he had cold, hard nerve, and very little sense of humor.English Ed’s other gunman was Keno Smiley, a tall, tow-headed person, with a huge nose and a long, lean jaw. It was rumored that Smiley had left the mining camps of the Cœur d’Alenes just two jumps ahead of a United States marshal; but this rumor had never been confirmed.Smiley had been picking out a tune on the piano with his long, lean fingers, but now he sauntered up to the bar beside Ort.“Who was that puncher with Regan, Mack?” he asked.“I dunno,” replied Ort. He turned to Cutter.“Know who he is, Cutter?”“That tall feller? Yea-a-ah. They tell me he’s a detective from Northern Idaho, Mack.”Cutter seemed serious, but Smiley saw the grin on Ryker’s lips. He flushed slightly.“You tryin’ to be funny, Cutter?” he asked.“Not a bit, Keno. Go ask English Ed.”“Does English know him?” asked Ort.“To his everlasting sorrow,” grinned Ryker.“What does he want here?” demanded Smiley.“Give him enough time and he’ll probably show you,” said Ryker.“Well, he’s got nothin’ on me,” declared Smiley.“Nor me,” echoed Ort. “Let’s all have a drink.”
Ryker grinned sourly as he walked away, going to the Black Horse Saloon. He found Hashknife and Regan at the bar. Regan invited him to have a drink; and he introduced Hashknife.
“Ryker is the prosecuting attorney,” explained Regan.
“He’s the jigger who proves they’re guilty, whether they are or not, eh?” laughed Hashknife.
“Something like that,” smiled Ryker, accepting the drink.
“You’re not part of the law that’s been ordered out of the county, are you?” asked Hashknife.
“Not yet. No, they’re not on my trail, it seems.”
Regan nudged Hashknife sharply. English Ed was coming up to them, and Regan didn’t want any arguments started. The gambler looked sharply at Hashknife, when Regan introduced him.
“Holmes owns this place,” explained Regan.
“Uh-huh. Quite a place you got, Holmes,” observed Hashknife. “Lot nicer than bootleggin’ hooch to the Flatheads, eh?”
Holmes started quickly, and for once he forgot to use his poker-face. But he recovered quickly and stared at Hashknife.
“I didn’t quite get that,” he said.
Hashknife looked at him keenly, his level gray eyes boring into the gambler’s face.
“Mebby I’m mistaken,” he said slowly. “There was a Holmes that bootlegged hooch to the Flatheads up in Montana a few years ago. He was a remittance man from Canada. Yeah, his name was Ed Holmes. I guess you’re not the man.”
“I know I’m not,” denied Holmes. “I never was up in Montana. I’m not sure I got your name.”
“Hartley. My friends call me Hashknife.”
“I see, you’re a stranger here. Going to stay long?”
“I dunno. I’ll buy a drink.”
“No; this is my treat,” said the gambler, motioning the bartender. They drank a “good luck” to the house, and Holmes excused himself.
“Glad to see you any time,” he told Hashknife. “Make this your headquarters.”
“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife; he watched the gambler cross the big room to a poker table.
“Jist how near right was you about that Flathead deal?” queried Regan.
Hashknife laughed, but did not reply.
“You are probably mistaken,” said Ryker softly.
“Is that a legal opinion, or man to man?” asked Hashknife.
“Merely my opinion,” said Ryker seriously. “Now, I’ll buy.”
Hashknife shook his head quickly.
“Nope, I’ve had enough, pardner. Knowin’ when to quit is a failin’ I’ve always had.”
They left the bar and went to the sidewalk, where they met Kent Cutter and two of his men. Regan introduced Hashknife to them, and Cutter offered to buy a drink, but Hashknife and Slim declined. Not so Ryker. He went in with them, while Hashknife and Regan walked to the depot to see whether the train would be in on time.
The few drinks had made Ryker expansive. He wanted to tell Cutter what Hartley had said to English Ed, but English Ed joined them before Ryker had a chance to do much talking.
“Where did that fellow come from?” demanded English Ed.
“He brought Frank Moran from Sibley Junction,” explained Ryker. “His partner rented his horse to Moran, and the partner will be in on the train today.”
“Looks kinda forked,” observed Cutter indifferently.
“He is,” said English Ed. “That’s Hashknife Hartley. He’s a cattle detective.”
“Oh-ho-o-o!” grunted Cutter. “Association man, eh?”
Ryker grinned half-drunkenly.
“He knew you, didn’t he, Holmes?”
“That’s my business. You keep out of it.”
“That’s all right,” grinned Ryker.
“What’s he doin’ here?” wondered Cutter.
“Maybe Franklyn Moran knows.”
“There’s been no rustlin’ around here, Ed.”
“What about those dead steers at Conley’s?”
“Pshaw! They were killed yesterday. I think he just happened to come here. Mebby he—” Cutter hesitated— “Mebby he came here to investigate the killin’ of Joe Mallette.”
English Ed squinted at himself in the back-bar mirror.
“I don’t know who would hire him to investigate that.”
“Conley might,” suggested Ryker.
“That’s true enough,” agreed Cutter. “If Hartley is an Association detective, like you say, Ed, he’d have a slick way of comin’ into a place, wouldn’t he? Detectives don’t usually have a brass band and a lot of banners.”
“I suppose that’s true,” nodded the gambler.
Ryker laughed outright and reached for the bottle on the bar.
“I wonder if Hartley has seen Conley. The old man is out at his house with a Winchester in his hands, and he swears he’ll kill the first man that comes on the place.”
“How do you know?” demanded Cutter.
“His own daughter told me awhile ago.”
“Yeah, and he’ll do it, too,” said Cutter. “I’m shore glad I don’t owe him any visit.”
Mack Ort, one of English Ed’s gamblers, came up to the bar, nodding to the three men. Ort was a slim, dark-faced man of about thirty-five, reputed to be a gunman. Little was known of him in Turquoise City, except that he had cold, hard nerve, and very little sense of humor.
English Ed’s other gunman was Keno Smiley, a tall, tow-headed person, with a huge nose and a long, lean jaw. It was rumored that Smiley had left the mining camps of the Cœur d’Alenes just two jumps ahead of a United States marshal; but this rumor had never been confirmed.
Smiley had been picking out a tune on the piano with his long, lean fingers, but now he sauntered up to the bar beside Ort.
“Who was that puncher with Regan, Mack?” he asked.
“I dunno,” replied Ort. He turned to Cutter.
“Know who he is, Cutter?”
“That tall feller? Yea-a-ah. They tell me he’s a detective from Northern Idaho, Mack.”
Cutter seemed serious, but Smiley saw the grin on Ryker’s lips. He flushed slightly.
“You tryin’ to be funny, Cutter?” he asked.
“Not a bit, Keno. Go ask English Ed.”
“Does English know him?” asked Ort.
“To his everlasting sorrow,” grinned Ryker.
“What does he want here?” demanded Smiley.
“Give him enough time and he’ll probably show you,” said Ryker.
“Well, he’s got nothin’ on me,” declared Smiley.
“Nor me,” echoed Ort. “Let’s all have a drink.”