Sleepy and Hashknife stabled their horses and went to the sheriff’s office, where they found Roaring and Wind River Jim. The deputy was asleep on the cot, sleeping off his jag.“What do you know?” asked Roaring.“Not very much,” replied Hashknife. “I wish you’d take me to the spot where they found Joe Mallette.”“Yea-a-ah? What for, Hashknife?”“Curiosity, I suppose.”“Uh-huh. Will you stay here, Sleepy? Got to keep somebody around here. Wind River ain’t much use right now.”“Go ahead,” laughed Sleepy.Roaring led Hashknife through the alley between the Black Horse Saloon and the restaurant, out past the rear of the judge’s home, to a spot between there and the end house of the redlight district.“This is the spot,” said Roaring. “I wasn’t here that night, but several of the boys showed me the place.”Hashknife studied the spot for a while, while the sheriff watched him curiously.“Mallette was drunk, wasn’t he?” asked Hashknife.“They say he was. Drank absinth. Some of the boys said they wondered how he was able to walk.”“Powerful stuff.”They walked part way back to the alley, where Hashknife stopped and looked back.“Mallette came from the rear of the Black Horse Saloon,” said Hashknife. “He was headin’ for them redlight houses and he was loaded with absinth and whisky. Uh-huh.”“That’s the right dope on it, Hashknife. What have you got in your mind?”“How long was it before Pete Conley went out on his trail?”“Prob’ly not much more than five minutes.”“Long enough.”They walked back through the alley, where Hashknife excused himself and went over to a general merchandise store. He bought a box of cartridges for his revolver, and engaged the proprietor in conversation. Their selection of ammunition was limited to a few sizes. Hashknife noticed a few boxes of .22 caliber shells.“Yuh don’t sell many twenty-twos, do you?” he asked.“Not many,” grinned the proprietor. “Pretty small ammunition. Pete Conley used to buy quite a lot.”“Some places they’re popular,” observed Hashknife. “Is Pete the only twenty-two shooter around here?”“Guess he is. Don’t remember any others.”Hashknife bought some tobacco, and went out. It seemed to have narrowed down to the one twenty-two rifle. As he came from the store he met Kent Cutter, the boss of the 7AL. They nodded and went on. Cutter entered the store, singing out a greeting to the proprietor, who had seen Cutter and Hashknife exchange nods.“Who is that tall cowboy?” asked the merchant.“Name’s Hartley. Came here with Frank Moran. Heard he’s a cattle detective, but don’t know anythin’ about him myself.”“He’s a level-eyed son-of-a-rooster.”“Sure is. Gimme a box of thirty-thirties, Al.”The merchant slid a box across the counter.“This Hartley seemed to be interested in twenty-twos.”“In twenty-twos? Don’t pack one, does he?”“Bought forty-fives. Mentioned that I probably didn’t sell many twenty-twos. I told him Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in this part of the country.”“Yeah, he’s got one,” said Cutter. “I need a pair of overalls, Al. Give ’em to me big enough. This cowboy idea of tight pants don’t appeal to me. So he’s interested in twenty-twos, is he? Pretty small gun for a grown man; me, I like a thirty-thirty.”Hashknife went back to the office and asked Roaring to let him speak a word with Pete Conley. Roaring was willing. Hashknife told Pete that his father was conscious, and the half-breed seemed pleased. Jimmy Moran danced a jig on the cell floor and wanted to know all the details.“What did he say?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “Did he have any idea who shot him, Hashknife?”“He said you did, Jimmy.”“My God!” Jimmy turned around and sat down.“I want to ask you a question, Pete,” said Hashknife.“Sure.”“You’ve got a twenty-two rifle, Pete?”“Sure,” Pete grinned widely. “I got little gun. Pretty damn good gun, too.”“Fine. Who else in Black Horse valley has a twenty-two rifle?”“Mm-m-m-m,” Pete scratched his head thoughtfully. “By golly, I dunno. Nobody, I guess. I not know any one. You want use mine? You tell Dawn—”“I don’t want it, Pete—thanks.”“She shoot good.”“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife.“What about a twenty-two rifle?” asked Roaring.“You don’t know anybody who owns one, do you?”“I don’t; didn’t even know Pete owned one.”“You’re a lot of help to me,” sighed Hashknife. “Much obliged to you, Pete.”They went back into the office and sat down. Hashknife knew that Roaring was itching to know; so he told him that the Big 4 steers had been killed with a twenty-two rifle.“The hell!” exploded Roaring. “Do you know, I never even thought to see what had killed ’em? I’ll betcha Mose Conley killed ’em with Pete’s gun. Yes, sir, that’s jist what happened.”“Why would he, Roaring?”“Why would he? Why, the old man has hated the Big 4—”“For twenty-five years—yeah.”“Well, mebby it was to show Frank Moran—”“Conley didn’t even know Frank Moran was comin’. That fence was cut. If Conley wanted to kill Big 4 steers for revenge, would he kill ’em down in that Hot Creek coulee, where the Big 4 couldn’t find ’em? He’d have to take a chance that some puncher would find that cut fence, and investigate. If Conley wanted to make the Big 4 mad, he’d kill them steers inside the fence and near the road.”“Yeah, that’s true. I never thought of that, Hartley. You kinda reason things out.”“And if Pete owned the only twenty-two in the country, do you suppose they’d kill them steers and then deny it? They did deny it, Roarin’. And if Conley killed ’em for revenge, would it be any revenge to deny it to the Big 4? It would not. He’d merely tell ’em to keep their stock off his ranch. And another thing, Roarin’; Moses Conley wouldn’t wantonly butcher eight big, fat steers in that manner. He’s an old cowman. He might kill a man, but I don’t think he’d kill steers.”“Well, somebody did,” said Roaring foolishly. “Mebby the Big 4 killed ’em themselves.”“Probably borrowed Pete’s twenty-two,” said Hashknife.“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m not interested in them steers. So old man Conley says Jimmy shot him, eh? That makes it tough for Jimmy; but old Frank Moran will shore hire a good lawyer for Jimmy. English Ed tells me that the old man paid Jimmy’s gamblin’ debt. English was down here a while ago. Asked about you. I told him I didn’t know where you’d gone. He asked me if you was interested in Jimmy’s case, and I said you prob’ly was. He said he heard that you took a shot at Horse-Collar Fields, and I told him what had happened. Ryker heard about it too, and he came down. You can’t keep a lawyer’s nose out of things. He asked quite a lot; but that’s natural.”“He’s a queer lookin’ jigger,” smiled Hashknife.“He shore is,” laughed Roaring. “Ryker is an old old-timer, Hashknife. He had that assay office for years. Knows minerals, y’betcha. But when the minin’ boom died out and his business wasn’t so much, he took to law. I reckon he had studied it before he came here. Knew quite a lot about minin’ law. He’s done pretty good. Got himself elected to office, and this is his third term. Makes me itch. I want to cinch up his collar. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And them danged cuffs! Him and Judge Beal never got along. The old judge knows law, and the prosecutor never slips anythin’ over on him. I heard old Ryker make the crack one day that he was aimin’ to be judge of this county one of these days. Could, I reckon—if the voters would elect him.”“Was Jim Randall a good sheriff?” asked Hashknife.“Best in the world! Why, Jim Randall would shoot a man as quick as he’d look at him. Good? I’ll tell you he was.”Hashknife grinned to himself. That was Roaring Rigby’s idea of an efficient officer.“Strict, eh?”“You’re danged right. That’s why they ran him out. He was a fighter in the open, but—but he had a wife and kids, Hartley. I don’t blame him. If they ever send me a warnin’, my own skin will be my only alibi for high-tailin’ it out of here. I’d rather be a runnin’ coward than a reclinin’ hero.”“Somethin’ to that, too,” smiled Hashknife.“Yeah, and you better think about it,” said Sleepy.
Sleepy and Hashknife stabled their horses and went to the sheriff’s office, where they found Roaring and Wind River Jim. The deputy was asleep on the cot, sleeping off his jag.
“What do you know?” asked Roaring.
“Not very much,” replied Hashknife. “I wish you’d take me to the spot where they found Joe Mallette.”
“Yea-a-ah? What for, Hashknife?”
“Curiosity, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh. Will you stay here, Sleepy? Got to keep somebody around here. Wind River ain’t much use right now.”
“Go ahead,” laughed Sleepy.
Roaring led Hashknife through the alley between the Black Horse Saloon and the restaurant, out past the rear of the judge’s home, to a spot between there and the end house of the redlight district.
“This is the spot,” said Roaring. “I wasn’t here that night, but several of the boys showed me the place.”
Hashknife studied the spot for a while, while the sheriff watched him curiously.
“Mallette was drunk, wasn’t he?” asked Hashknife.
“They say he was. Drank absinth. Some of the boys said they wondered how he was able to walk.”
“Powerful stuff.”
They walked part way back to the alley, where Hashknife stopped and looked back.
“Mallette came from the rear of the Black Horse Saloon,” said Hashknife. “He was headin’ for them redlight houses and he was loaded with absinth and whisky. Uh-huh.”
“That’s the right dope on it, Hashknife. What have you got in your mind?”
“How long was it before Pete Conley went out on his trail?”
“Prob’ly not much more than five minutes.”
“Long enough.”
They walked back through the alley, where Hashknife excused himself and went over to a general merchandise store. He bought a box of cartridges for his revolver, and engaged the proprietor in conversation. Their selection of ammunition was limited to a few sizes. Hashknife noticed a few boxes of .22 caliber shells.
“Yuh don’t sell many twenty-twos, do you?” he asked.
“Not many,” grinned the proprietor. “Pretty small ammunition. Pete Conley used to buy quite a lot.”
“Some places they’re popular,” observed Hashknife. “Is Pete the only twenty-two shooter around here?”
“Guess he is. Don’t remember any others.”
Hashknife bought some tobacco, and went out. It seemed to have narrowed down to the one twenty-two rifle. As he came from the store he met Kent Cutter, the boss of the 7AL. They nodded and went on. Cutter entered the store, singing out a greeting to the proprietor, who had seen Cutter and Hashknife exchange nods.
“Who is that tall cowboy?” asked the merchant.
“Name’s Hartley. Came here with Frank Moran. Heard he’s a cattle detective, but don’t know anythin’ about him myself.”
“He’s a level-eyed son-of-a-rooster.”
“Sure is. Gimme a box of thirty-thirties, Al.”
The merchant slid a box across the counter.
“This Hartley seemed to be interested in twenty-twos.”
“In twenty-twos? Don’t pack one, does he?”
“Bought forty-fives. Mentioned that I probably didn’t sell many twenty-twos. I told him Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in this part of the country.”
“Yeah, he’s got one,” said Cutter. “I need a pair of overalls, Al. Give ’em to me big enough. This cowboy idea of tight pants don’t appeal to me. So he’s interested in twenty-twos, is he? Pretty small gun for a grown man; me, I like a thirty-thirty.”
Hashknife went back to the office and asked Roaring to let him speak a word with Pete Conley. Roaring was willing. Hashknife told Pete that his father was conscious, and the half-breed seemed pleased. Jimmy Moran danced a jig on the cell floor and wanted to know all the details.
“What did he say?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “Did he have any idea who shot him, Hashknife?”
“He said you did, Jimmy.”
“My God!” Jimmy turned around and sat down.
“I want to ask you a question, Pete,” said Hashknife.
“Sure.”
“You’ve got a twenty-two rifle, Pete?”
“Sure,” Pete grinned widely. “I got little gun. Pretty damn good gun, too.”
“Fine. Who else in Black Horse valley has a twenty-two rifle?”
“Mm-m-m-m,” Pete scratched his head thoughtfully. “By golly, I dunno. Nobody, I guess. I not know any one. You want use mine? You tell Dawn—”
“I don’t want it, Pete—thanks.”
“She shoot good.”
“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife.
“What about a twenty-two rifle?” asked Roaring.
“You don’t know anybody who owns one, do you?”
“I don’t; didn’t even know Pete owned one.”
“You’re a lot of help to me,” sighed Hashknife. “Much obliged to you, Pete.”
They went back into the office and sat down. Hashknife knew that Roaring was itching to know; so he told him that the Big 4 steers had been killed with a twenty-two rifle.
“The hell!” exploded Roaring. “Do you know, I never even thought to see what had killed ’em? I’ll betcha Mose Conley killed ’em with Pete’s gun. Yes, sir, that’s jist what happened.”
“Why would he, Roaring?”
“Why would he? Why, the old man has hated the Big 4—”
“For twenty-five years—yeah.”
“Well, mebby it was to show Frank Moran—”
“Conley didn’t even know Frank Moran was comin’. That fence was cut. If Conley wanted to kill Big 4 steers for revenge, would he kill ’em down in that Hot Creek coulee, where the Big 4 couldn’t find ’em? He’d have to take a chance that some puncher would find that cut fence, and investigate. If Conley wanted to make the Big 4 mad, he’d kill them steers inside the fence and near the road.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I never thought of that, Hartley. You kinda reason things out.”
“And if Pete owned the only twenty-two in the country, do you suppose they’d kill them steers and then deny it? They did deny it, Roarin’. And if Conley killed ’em for revenge, would it be any revenge to deny it to the Big 4? It would not. He’d merely tell ’em to keep their stock off his ranch. And another thing, Roarin’; Moses Conley wouldn’t wantonly butcher eight big, fat steers in that manner. He’s an old cowman. He might kill a man, but I don’t think he’d kill steers.”
“Well, somebody did,” said Roaring foolishly. “Mebby the Big 4 killed ’em themselves.”
“Probably borrowed Pete’s twenty-two,” said Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m not interested in them steers. So old man Conley says Jimmy shot him, eh? That makes it tough for Jimmy; but old Frank Moran will shore hire a good lawyer for Jimmy. English Ed tells me that the old man paid Jimmy’s gamblin’ debt. English was down here a while ago. Asked about you. I told him I didn’t know where you’d gone. He asked me if you was interested in Jimmy’s case, and I said you prob’ly was. He said he heard that you took a shot at Horse-Collar Fields, and I told him what had happened. Ryker heard about it too, and he came down. You can’t keep a lawyer’s nose out of things. He asked quite a lot; but that’s natural.”
“He’s a queer lookin’ jigger,” smiled Hashknife.
“He shore is,” laughed Roaring. “Ryker is an old old-timer, Hashknife. He had that assay office for years. Knows minerals, y’betcha. But when the minin’ boom died out and his business wasn’t so much, he took to law. I reckon he had studied it before he came here. Knew quite a lot about minin’ law. He’s done pretty good. Got himself elected to office, and this is his third term. Makes me itch. I want to cinch up his collar. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And them danged cuffs! Him and Judge Beal never got along. The old judge knows law, and the prosecutor never slips anythin’ over on him. I heard old Ryker make the crack one day that he was aimin’ to be judge of this county one of these days. Could, I reckon—if the voters would elect him.”
“Was Jim Randall a good sheriff?” asked Hashknife.
“Best in the world! Why, Jim Randall would shoot a man as quick as he’d look at him. Good? I’ll tell you he was.”
Hashknife grinned to himself. That was Roaring Rigby’s idea of an efficient officer.
“Strict, eh?”
“You’re danged right. That’s why they ran him out. He was a fighter in the open, but—but he had a wife and kids, Hartley. I don’t blame him. If they ever send me a warnin’, my own skin will be my only alibi for high-tailin’ it out of here. I’d rather be a runnin’ coward than a reclinin’ hero.”
“Somethin’ to that, too,” smiled Hashknife.
“Yeah, and you better think about it,” said Sleepy.