Hashknife rode back to Turquoise City and went to the assay office, where he met “Mica” Jones, the old bald-headed assayer who ran the business for Ryker. The little place stank of acids.Jones was idly reading a much-thumbed mining journal, when Hashknife came in and placed a piece of the ore on the battered old counter. Jones put on his glasses and picked up a receipt blank.“Assay it for lead, will you?” said Hashknife.Jones glanced at the sample. It was a most unusual request. He squinted closely at it and looked at Hashknife.“There ain’t no lead in that stuff,” he said, giving an honest opinion.“What do you think’s in it, pardner?”Jones picked up the sample, turned it slowly in his gnarled hand and gave Hashknife a sharp glance. But the tall cowboy merely slouched against the counter, looking at other pieces of ore on the counter. Mica Jones swallowed heavily. He had seen the gold.“It ain’t lead-bearin’ rock,” he said, clearing his throat harshly.“Pshaw! Well, let it go then. I don’t know much about ore. Do you know anythin’ about minin’ laws, pardner?”Mica Jones frowned. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes off that piece of crumbly red ore.“Little bit,” he said. “Whatcha want to know?”“Ain’t there some kind of a minin’ law that lets you go on a man’s ranch and locate a mine, if you can prove it’s worth more for mineral than it is for agriculture?”Mica Jones carefully placed the piece of ore on a shelf behind him, drew out a plug of tobacco and bit off a huge portion.“Yea-a-ah, I think there is. It was tried out five year ago. Feller jumped in on a ranch about ten mile below here and located a mine. Quoted that law and got a bullet plumb through him. They tried this rancher for murder, and the lawyer orated that this dead client was actin’ accordin’ to law; but the jury exonerated him without leavin’ their seat. It kinda set a precedent, you see. Out here—” Mica shifted his chew thoughtfully—“out here, you can hold what you’ve got, pardner.”“That’s a good system,” agreed Hashknife. “Thanks for the opinion. Never mind assayin’ that stone.”“Oh, that’s all right; come in ag’in’.”“Thank you.”Hashknife went to the hotel and found Horse-Collar and Lovely with Sleepy, who was resting easily. The doctor had been there and changed the dressing.“Wind River was over here from the courtroom a while ago,” said Lovely. “They’re goin’ ahead with the trial of Pete Conley. The judge offered to postpone the trial until Pete could get a lawyer, but the bug-headed half-breed said to go ahead; he didn’t need any lawyer.“They’ve got the jury already. Ryker ain’t particular, because he’s got a cinch. Him and the judge locked horns a few times this mornin’, and the boys had fun out of it. Roarin’ come damn near runnin’ everybody out of the courtroom. Dawn is up there with Pete—jist them two. I tell you it don’t look right. It’s jist them two agin’ the judge, jury and the crowd, not to mention Ryker. The judge says it’s a farce. What’s a farce, Hartley?”“It’s a cooked game that looks honest.”“Oh, yeah. He prob’ly meant that Pete ain’t got a chance. But Pete’s hardheaded. The judge asked him if he didn’t want the case postponed until he could get a lawyer. Pete asked him where in hell he could find a lawyer that knew who killed Joe Mallette. It made everybody laugh.”“They’ll have Jimmy on the stand,” said Horse-Collar. “He’ll have to tell about that poker game, I reckon. English Ed will be a witness, and the doctor said he’d have to testify; but what good will it do the half-breed? They won’t be helpin’ him. Suppose Mallette did steal from Pete?”“It’s murder, just the same,” said Hashknife. “I suppose there’s quite a crowd at the court-house.”“Biggest you ever seen,” said Horse-collar. “Everybody in the country. I’d hate to be in Roarin’ Rigby’s shoes, if he has to hang Pete.”“A-a-aw, talk about something’ pleasant,” said Sleepy.
Hashknife rode back to Turquoise City and went to the assay office, where he met “Mica” Jones, the old bald-headed assayer who ran the business for Ryker. The little place stank of acids.
Jones was idly reading a much-thumbed mining journal, when Hashknife came in and placed a piece of the ore on the battered old counter. Jones put on his glasses and picked up a receipt blank.
“Assay it for lead, will you?” said Hashknife.
Jones glanced at the sample. It was a most unusual request. He squinted closely at it and looked at Hashknife.
“There ain’t no lead in that stuff,” he said, giving an honest opinion.
“What do you think’s in it, pardner?”
Jones picked up the sample, turned it slowly in his gnarled hand and gave Hashknife a sharp glance. But the tall cowboy merely slouched against the counter, looking at other pieces of ore on the counter. Mica Jones swallowed heavily. He had seen the gold.
“It ain’t lead-bearin’ rock,” he said, clearing his throat harshly.
“Pshaw! Well, let it go then. I don’t know much about ore. Do you know anythin’ about minin’ laws, pardner?”
Mica Jones frowned. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes off that piece of crumbly red ore.
“Little bit,” he said. “Whatcha want to know?”
“Ain’t there some kind of a minin’ law that lets you go on a man’s ranch and locate a mine, if you can prove it’s worth more for mineral than it is for agriculture?”
Mica Jones carefully placed the piece of ore on a shelf behind him, drew out a plug of tobacco and bit off a huge portion.
“Yea-a-ah, I think there is. It was tried out five year ago. Feller jumped in on a ranch about ten mile below here and located a mine. Quoted that law and got a bullet plumb through him. They tried this rancher for murder, and the lawyer orated that this dead client was actin’ accordin’ to law; but the jury exonerated him without leavin’ their seat. It kinda set a precedent, you see. Out here—” Mica shifted his chew thoughtfully—“out here, you can hold what you’ve got, pardner.”
“That’s a good system,” agreed Hashknife. “Thanks for the opinion. Never mind assayin’ that stone.”
“Oh, that’s all right; come in ag’in’.”
“Thank you.”
Hashknife went to the hotel and found Horse-Collar and Lovely with Sleepy, who was resting easily. The doctor had been there and changed the dressing.
“Wind River was over here from the courtroom a while ago,” said Lovely. “They’re goin’ ahead with the trial of Pete Conley. The judge offered to postpone the trial until Pete could get a lawyer, but the bug-headed half-breed said to go ahead; he didn’t need any lawyer.
“They’ve got the jury already. Ryker ain’t particular, because he’s got a cinch. Him and the judge locked horns a few times this mornin’, and the boys had fun out of it. Roarin’ come damn near runnin’ everybody out of the courtroom. Dawn is up there with Pete—jist them two. I tell you it don’t look right. It’s jist them two agin’ the judge, jury and the crowd, not to mention Ryker. The judge says it’s a farce. What’s a farce, Hartley?”
“It’s a cooked game that looks honest.”
“Oh, yeah. He prob’ly meant that Pete ain’t got a chance. But Pete’s hardheaded. The judge asked him if he didn’t want the case postponed until he could get a lawyer. Pete asked him where in hell he could find a lawyer that knew who killed Joe Mallette. It made everybody laugh.”
“They’ll have Jimmy on the stand,” said Horse-Collar. “He’ll have to tell about that poker game, I reckon. English Ed will be a witness, and the doctor said he’d have to testify; but what good will it do the half-breed? They won’t be helpin’ him. Suppose Mallette did steal from Pete?”
“It’s murder, just the same,” said Hashknife. “I suppose there’s quite a crowd at the court-house.”
“Biggest you ever seen,” said Horse-collar. “Everybody in the country. I’d hate to be in Roarin’ Rigby’s shoes, if he has to hang Pete.”
“A-a-aw, talk about something’ pleasant,” said Sleepy.