The court was to open at ten o’clock, but Hashknife did not care about the opening of the case. He saddled his horse and rode out toward the Conley ranch. Near the ford he met Doctor Shelley and Dawn. The doctor had told Dawn about the shooting of Sleepy, and the girl was full of sympathy.“He’s able to cuss this mornin’; so he’ll get well,” laughed Hashknife. “How’s your father?”“Just fine, Mr. Hartley.”“I wonder if I could talk with him.”“Go ahead,” nodded the doctor.“Don’t talk too long.”Hashknife rode on to the ranch. He hadn’t the slightest idea of why he was coming out to see Conley, except that he had what might be termed a hunch. Mrs. Conley admitted him, and he found the old man propped up in bed.Conley stared at Hashknife out of sunken eyes.“I heard them talk about you,” he said huskily. “The doctor said your pardner got shot last night. Is he alive?”“Yeah, luckily,” said Hashknife.“I’m glad somebody has luck.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve never had much of it myself. My son is being tried for his life, and he hasn’t even a lawyer. I was goin’ to get him one, but I got shot. Dawn has gone down to be with him.” He shifted his eyes to Hashknife.“Will they hang him, do you think?”“Law is a queer piece of machinery, Conley.”“Law for a half-breed, Hartley.”“Law for anybody.”“Mebby. They tell me you came with Frank Moran.”Hashknife explained how it happened that he came to Black Horse with Moran, and the old man nodded.“I hate him,” he said.“Yeah, I know,” said Hashknife. “It’s too bad, Conley. Hate never got either of you anythin’ but misery. Hatin’ folks is just like throwin’ a rubber ball against a wall. It slams back at you.”“That’s true!” The old man’s eyes opened wide. “It does. Ain’t it queer that my son and Moran’s son should both be in jail at the same time. Jimmy Moran shot me, you know.”“Sure of it, Conley?”“He called me out and shot me.”“Did you see him?”“No. I don’t remember anythin’ after I opened the door and stepped outside. But he called and told me who he was.”“He admits it. Oh, he’s sorry, Conley. He swears he didn’t shoot you. Why, man, he’s in love with your daughter.”The old man averted his eyes and his bony old face twitched.“That’s what hurts, Hartley—hurts worse than the bullet-hole in my side. That’s what hate does. I—I was goin’ to let Dawn marry Jimmy Moran, because I hated his father. Goin’ to help his son marry a half-breed girl. It wasn’t right.”“It was right, Conley; he loves her.”“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to at first. I gave him orders to keep away. But I got to thinkin’ how it would hurt Frank Moran. That’s hate. I’m not fit for much. By God, I was goin’ to sell my girl! It’s the same thing. Love! Bah! What in hell did I care about love? But I’ve had plenty of time to think lately. I fenced Hot Creek against the Big 4, but I didn’t kill them steers. No, I didn’t, Hartley. I’m a cowman. I’ve been a cowman ever since the old minin’ days. Do you know, this ranch was a minin’ claim? It was. About twenty-five years ago I located this as a minin’ claim. In them days there was plenty of buyin’ and sellin’ prospects. You know Ryker? He was an assayer. Frank Moran was here. He had plenty of money to buy mines. He’s always had money.”“You not talk too much,” advised Mrs. Conley.“I’m all right, mother. It was great in the old days; but the mines played out. This was my last location. I dug my discovery hole just west of Hot Creek. There’s an old sycamore up there on the slope. It was a small tree twenty-five years ago, and it was there that I tacked my notice and dug my discovery. But things went wrong in the minin’ game, and a little later I homesteaded and went in for cattle. I went up into Idaho to buy stock and that’s where I met Minnie.”“My father big chief,” said Mrs. Conley.“Mm-m-m-m,” grunted Conley. “Not so awful big. You see, he stole some horses from me, and I went after ’em. I made him a trade for Minnie. He had six other daughters; so it wasn’t hard to make a trade, you see.”“We get married, too,” said Minnie.“We shore did; and I’ve never been sorry, Hartley.”“Well, that’s great,” smiled Hashknife. “You better take a rest now, I’ll see you ag’in’, Conley.”“All right; be sure and come ag’in’, Hartley.”Hashknife rode around the house and headed for Hot Creek. He wanted to see that old prospect hole. He had a hunch that the Conley ranch was being desired for more than a winter water-hole and a shelter from blizzards.He located the big sycamore and, in the brush at its base, he found the old prospect hole, which was practically hidden in an overhang of brush. It was an open cut, possibly five feet long, three or four feet wide, and not over five feet deep.Hashknife was not a miner, but he knew a little about rocks. It seemed to him that there were indications that some one had broken off a little of the exposed ledge of reddish quartz long since the hole had been originally dug. Some of the quartz was badly honeycombed, rusty looking stuff.He broke off a small chunk from about the center of the upper end of the cut, put it in his pocket and went back to his horse. His hunch was fading out now. It did not seem that this mere showing of honeycombed quartz would warrant any one’s making a great effort to purchase the entire ranch.He rode back to the main gate and followed the fence down to the ford, where he dismounted and drank from the river. Sitting down on a convenient boulder, he took out the chunk of rock and washed it carefully, while the tall gray horse slaked its thirst and looked curiously at him.A washing showed the quartz to be thoroughly honeycombed and not very hard. Taking the rock in his palm he struck it sharply against another rock, breaking it in several small pieces. For several moments he stared at the broken fragments.Gold! It gleamed through the lace-like texture of the broken quartz, and there were even specks of it on his palm.He examined it closely, knowing that it was gold. Hashknife had never seen rock so rich in his life. He tried to estimate its worth per ton, but gave it up. The rock was not heavy. It would take a lot of it to weigh a ton, and if all of it was as rich as this, it would be worth more money than Hashknife could estimate.He put the rock back in his pocket. It was not hard for him to imagine what had happened. Conley had found a piece of promising float, located the property, dug a discovery hole and had never had an assay made. The mining boom had died, and Conley had never gone any further with the prospect.
The court was to open at ten o’clock, but Hashknife did not care about the opening of the case. He saddled his horse and rode out toward the Conley ranch. Near the ford he met Doctor Shelley and Dawn. The doctor had told Dawn about the shooting of Sleepy, and the girl was full of sympathy.
“He’s able to cuss this mornin’; so he’ll get well,” laughed Hashknife. “How’s your father?”
“Just fine, Mr. Hartley.”
“I wonder if I could talk with him.”
“Go ahead,” nodded the doctor.
“Don’t talk too long.”
Hashknife rode on to the ranch. He hadn’t the slightest idea of why he was coming out to see Conley, except that he had what might be termed a hunch. Mrs. Conley admitted him, and he found the old man propped up in bed.
Conley stared at Hashknife out of sunken eyes.
“I heard them talk about you,” he said huskily. “The doctor said your pardner got shot last night. Is he alive?”
“Yeah, luckily,” said Hashknife.
“I’m glad somebody has luck.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve never had much of it myself. My son is being tried for his life, and he hasn’t even a lawyer. I was goin’ to get him one, but I got shot. Dawn has gone down to be with him.” He shifted his eyes to Hashknife.
“Will they hang him, do you think?”
“Law is a queer piece of machinery, Conley.”
“Law for a half-breed, Hartley.”
“Law for anybody.”
“Mebby. They tell me you came with Frank Moran.”
Hashknife explained how it happened that he came to Black Horse with Moran, and the old man nodded.
“I hate him,” he said.
“Yeah, I know,” said Hashknife. “It’s too bad, Conley. Hate never got either of you anythin’ but misery. Hatin’ folks is just like throwin’ a rubber ball against a wall. It slams back at you.”
“That’s true!” The old man’s eyes opened wide. “It does. Ain’t it queer that my son and Moran’s son should both be in jail at the same time. Jimmy Moran shot me, you know.”
“Sure of it, Conley?”
“He called me out and shot me.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. I don’t remember anythin’ after I opened the door and stepped outside. But he called and told me who he was.”
“He admits it. Oh, he’s sorry, Conley. He swears he didn’t shoot you. Why, man, he’s in love with your daughter.”
The old man averted his eyes and his bony old face twitched.
“That’s what hurts, Hartley—hurts worse than the bullet-hole in my side. That’s what hate does. I—I was goin’ to let Dawn marry Jimmy Moran, because I hated his father. Goin’ to help his son marry a half-breed girl. It wasn’t right.”
“It was right, Conley; he loves her.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to at first. I gave him orders to keep away. But I got to thinkin’ how it would hurt Frank Moran. That’s hate. I’m not fit for much. By God, I was goin’ to sell my girl! It’s the same thing. Love! Bah! What in hell did I care about love? But I’ve had plenty of time to think lately. I fenced Hot Creek against the Big 4, but I didn’t kill them steers. No, I didn’t, Hartley. I’m a cowman. I’ve been a cowman ever since the old minin’ days. Do you know, this ranch was a minin’ claim? It was. About twenty-five years ago I located this as a minin’ claim. In them days there was plenty of buyin’ and sellin’ prospects. You know Ryker? He was an assayer. Frank Moran was here. He had plenty of money to buy mines. He’s always had money.”
“You not talk too much,” advised Mrs. Conley.
“I’m all right, mother. It was great in the old days; but the mines played out. This was my last location. I dug my discovery hole just west of Hot Creek. There’s an old sycamore up there on the slope. It was a small tree twenty-five years ago, and it was there that I tacked my notice and dug my discovery. But things went wrong in the minin’ game, and a little later I homesteaded and went in for cattle. I went up into Idaho to buy stock and that’s where I met Minnie.”
“My father big chief,” said Mrs. Conley.
“Mm-m-m-m,” grunted Conley. “Not so awful big. You see, he stole some horses from me, and I went after ’em. I made him a trade for Minnie. He had six other daughters; so it wasn’t hard to make a trade, you see.”
“We get married, too,” said Minnie.
“We shore did; and I’ve never been sorry, Hartley.”
“Well, that’s great,” smiled Hashknife. “You better take a rest now, I’ll see you ag’in’, Conley.”
“All right; be sure and come ag’in’, Hartley.”
Hashknife rode around the house and headed for Hot Creek. He wanted to see that old prospect hole. He had a hunch that the Conley ranch was being desired for more than a winter water-hole and a shelter from blizzards.
He located the big sycamore and, in the brush at its base, he found the old prospect hole, which was practically hidden in an overhang of brush. It was an open cut, possibly five feet long, three or four feet wide, and not over five feet deep.
Hashknife was not a miner, but he knew a little about rocks. It seemed to him that there were indications that some one had broken off a little of the exposed ledge of reddish quartz long since the hole had been originally dug. Some of the quartz was badly honeycombed, rusty looking stuff.
He broke off a small chunk from about the center of the upper end of the cut, put it in his pocket and went back to his horse. His hunch was fading out now. It did not seem that this mere showing of honeycombed quartz would warrant any one’s making a great effort to purchase the entire ranch.
He rode back to the main gate and followed the fence down to the ford, where he dismounted and drank from the river. Sitting down on a convenient boulder, he took out the chunk of rock and washed it carefully, while the tall gray horse slaked its thirst and looked curiously at him.
A washing showed the quartz to be thoroughly honeycombed and not very hard. Taking the rock in his palm he struck it sharply against another rock, breaking it in several small pieces. For several moments he stared at the broken fragments.
Gold! It gleamed through the lace-like texture of the broken quartz, and there were even specks of it on his palm.
He examined it closely, knowing that it was gold. Hashknife had never seen rock so rich in his life. He tried to estimate its worth per ton, but gave it up. The rock was not heavy. It would take a lot of it to weigh a ton, and if all of it was as rich as this, it would be worth more money than Hashknife could estimate.
He put the rock back in his pocket. It was not hard for him to imagine what had happened. Conley had found a piece of promising float, located the property, dug a discovery hole and had never had an assay made. The mining boom had died, and Conley had never gone any further with the prospect.