It was just daylight when Hashknife left the hotel. The street was deserted at that time in the morning, but Hashknife did not lose his vigilance. He found the keeper of the livery-stable, asleep in his little inside office, and told him he was taking his horse out.“Yeah, all right,” yawned the man. “Need any help?”“No, I’ll manage,” laughed Hashknife. “What time did Ryker get back last night?”“Ryker? Oh, it was about midnight.”“I just wondered.”Hashknife went to his horse, grinning to himself in the gloom of the stable. He knew nothing about Ryker’s having been out last night, but he had followed another of his hunches when he asked the question.He took the right-hand road out of Turquoise City, traveling east. Hashknife had never been over this road, so he went carefully. The country was fairly flat for about two miles. Then the road entered the foot-hills. About four miles from town he swung off the road, but kept it in sight and finally came out on a hogback ridge from where he could get a good view of the 7AL ranch.He was not over two hundred yards from the buildings, but his view of the one-story ranch-house was partly obstructed by a huge stable and several sycamore trees. Behind the stable sprawled a series of corrals and beyond them could be seen the top of the old bunkhouse.There was smoke coming from the ranch-house. A man came around the corner of the stable and entered the corral at the rear, where there were several horses. A little later he came out, leading a bay horse, which he led around the stable out of Hashknife’s sight.Hashknife tied his horse in a thicket and came back to the crest of the ridge, where he sat down to wait. It was about thirty minutes later that three men rode away from the ranch-house and came down along the road, passing Hashknife close enough for him to identify Kent Cutter and Ted Ames. The third man was Henry Miller.They disappeared down the road, and Hashknife went back to his horse. He guessed that Cutter had a cook. There was a fourth man, Jud Hardy. Hashknife knew him for a thin-faced, hard-jawed young man, who had bad eyes—not physically, but morally. Eyes meant quite a lot to Hashknife, when it came to judging a man’s character.Hashknife mounted his gray horse and rode down to the ranch-house. There was a main gate, but it was wide open, sagging on its hinges. He rode around to the rear, where he found the kitchen door open. There was a pleasant odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee, doubly pleasant to Hashknife, who had had no breakfast.As he swung out of his saddle, the cook came to the door. He was a grizzled little man, with a big mustache and a slight limp; a typical old round-up cook. In his hand was a frying-pan, still smoking hot. He peered at Hashknife wonderingly.“Hyah, pardner,” greeted Hashknife, “how about a little breakfast?”“Hyah,” he grunted, “pretty good— mebby.”He looked Hashknife over carefully and glanced at the tall gray horse.“Ridin’ kinda early, ain’t you, stranger?” he asked.“No law ag’in’ it, is there?”“Not that I ever heard about. Excuse me. My name’s McCall. ‘Jinyus’ McCall, to be exact. Used to be Albert, until I cooked a forty-year-old sage-hen for some fellers. One of ’em said I was a jinyus—and it stuck. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”Hashknife laughed and scraped his heel along the short boards that had been laid as a walk near the door. He glanced down at the boards, but lifted his head quickly.“C’mon in,” invited Jinyus. “I’ll make you somethin’ to eat right off the stove.”“Fine.”Hashknife stooped over quickly and picked up a little copper shell near the boards. The cook was looking at him curiously.“Somebody been havin’ target practise, eh?” said Hashknife, exhibiting the twenty-two shell.“Pop-gun practise!” snorted Jinyus. “Ever since Cutter sent away for that danged gun, they’ve shot at everythin’ on the ranch. Nothin’ is safe. Cutter is the boss here.”“Oh, I see,” smiled Hashknife. He started to enter the kitchen, but a man’s voice stopped him short.“What in hell do you want here?”Hashknife turned slowly. About ten feet away stood Jud Hardy. His hair was uncombed and he had the general appearance of a man who had just got out of bed.“I didn’t want anythin’,” said Hashknife meekly.He noticed that Jud’s hand was swinging close to his gun.“You didn’t; eh?” flared Jud. “Who are you lookin’ for?”“Not a soul. I was just passin’ and smelled breakfast; the cook said he’d feed me, so I was goin’ to eat.”“Is that so? Well, the boss ain’t here, and the cook don’t run this ranch. If you came from town, it’s damn funny you didn’t meet him.”“I didn’t say I came from town,” said Hashknife.“Didn’t anybody ask you, did they? You turn around and get on that horse.”Turn around and get on that horse! That was just what Hashknife was not going to do. He started to turn, as if to comply with Hardy’s order, but at the same time he drew his gun so quickly that Hardy was looking down the muzzle of it before he realized that Hashknife had not turned.The cook stood there, his mouth wide open, the skillet still in his hand. Slowly Jud Hardy’s hands came up to a level with his shoulders.“Unbuckle your belt and let it drop,” ordered Hashknife.One look at Hashknife’s eyes, and Hardy complied.“Back up five steps. Cook, you stand like you are.”“Believe me!” gasped the cook earnestly.Hashknife walked forward, plucked Hardy’s gun from the holster and flung it far back toward the corral. Then he backed to his horse, mounted and bolstered his gun.“Thanks for the breakfast, just the same, Jinyus,” he said.“Oh, you’re completely welcome.”Without further conversation he whirled his horse around and galloped off down the road.
It was just daylight when Hashknife left the hotel. The street was deserted at that time in the morning, but Hashknife did not lose his vigilance. He found the keeper of the livery-stable, asleep in his little inside office, and told him he was taking his horse out.
“Yeah, all right,” yawned the man. “Need any help?”
“No, I’ll manage,” laughed Hashknife. “What time did Ryker get back last night?”
“Ryker? Oh, it was about midnight.”
“I just wondered.”
Hashknife went to his horse, grinning to himself in the gloom of the stable. He knew nothing about Ryker’s having been out last night, but he had followed another of his hunches when he asked the question.
He took the right-hand road out of Turquoise City, traveling east. Hashknife had never been over this road, so he went carefully. The country was fairly flat for about two miles. Then the road entered the foot-hills. About four miles from town he swung off the road, but kept it in sight and finally came out on a hogback ridge from where he could get a good view of the 7AL ranch.
He was not over two hundred yards from the buildings, but his view of the one-story ranch-house was partly obstructed by a huge stable and several sycamore trees. Behind the stable sprawled a series of corrals and beyond them could be seen the top of the old bunkhouse.
There was smoke coming from the ranch-house. A man came around the corner of the stable and entered the corral at the rear, where there were several horses. A little later he came out, leading a bay horse, which he led around the stable out of Hashknife’s sight.
Hashknife tied his horse in a thicket and came back to the crest of the ridge, where he sat down to wait. It was about thirty minutes later that three men rode away from the ranch-house and came down along the road, passing Hashknife close enough for him to identify Kent Cutter and Ted Ames. The third man was Henry Miller.
They disappeared down the road, and Hashknife went back to his horse. He guessed that Cutter had a cook. There was a fourth man, Jud Hardy. Hashknife knew him for a thin-faced, hard-jawed young man, who had bad eyes—not physically, but morally. Eyes meant quite a lot to Hashknife, when it came to judging a man’s character.
Hashknife mounted his gray horse and rode down to the ranch-house. There was a main gate, but it was wide open, sagging on its hinges. He rode around to the rear, where he found the kitchen door open. There was a pleasant odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee, doubly pleasant to Hashknife, who had had no breakfast.
As he swung out of his saddle, the cook came to the door. He was a grizzled little man, with a big mustache and a slight limp; a typical old round-up cook. In his hand was a frying-pan, still smoking hot. He peered at Hashknife wonderingly.
“Hyah, pardner,” greeted Hashknife, “how about a little breakfast?”
“Hyah,” he grunted, “pretty good— mebby.”
He looked Hashknife over carefully and glanced at the tall gray horse.
“Ridin’ kinda early, ain’t you, stranger?” he asked.
“No law ag’in’ it, is there?”
“Not that I ever heard about. Excuse me. My name’s McCall. ‘Jinyus’ McCall, to be exact. Used to be Albert, until I cooked a forty-year-old sage-hen for some fellers. One of ’em said I was a jinyus—and it stuck. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Hashknife laughed and scraped his heel along the short boards that had been laid as a walk near the door. He glanced down at the boards, but lifted his head quickly.
“C’mon in,” invited Jinyus. “I’ll make you somethin’ to eat right off the stove.”
“Fine.”
Hashknife stooped over quickly and picked up a little copper shell near the boards. The cook was looking at him curiously.
“Somebody been havin’ target practise, eh?” said Hashknife, exhibiting the twenty-two shell.
“Pop-gun practise!” snorted Jinyus. “Ever since Cutter sent away for that danged gun, they’ve shot at everythin’ on the ranch. Nothin’ is safe. Cutter is the boss here.”
“Oh, I see,” smiled Hashknife. He started to enter the kitchen, but a man’s voice stopped him short.
“What in hell do you want here?”
Hashknife turned slowly. About ten feet away stood Jud Hardy. His hair was uncombed and he had the general appearance of a man who had just got out of bed.
“I didn’t want anythin’,” said Hashknife meekly.
He noticed that Jud’s hand was swinging close to his gun.
“You didn’t; eh?” flared Jud. “Who are you lookin’ for?”
“Not a soul. I was just passin’ and smelled breakfast; the cook said he’d feed me, so I was goin’ to eat.”
“Is that so? Well, the boss ain’t here, and the cook don’t run this ranch. If you came from town, it’s damn funny you didn’t meet him.”
“I didn’t say I came from town,” said Hashknife.
“Didn’t anybody ask you, did they? You turn around and get on that horse.”
Turn around and get on that horse! That was just what Hashknife was not going to do. He started to turn, as if to comply with Hardy’s order, but at the same time he drew his gun so quickly that Hardy was looking down the muzzle of it before he realized that Hashknife had not turned.
The cook stood there, his mouth wide open, the skillet still in his hand. Slowly Jud Hardy’s hands came up to a level with his shoulders.
“Unbuckle your belt and let it drop,” ordered Hashknife.
One look at Hashknife’s eyes, and Hardy complied.
“Back up five steps. Cook, you stand like you are.”
“Believe me!” gasped the cook earnestly.
Hashknife walked forward, plucked Hardy’s gun from the holster and flung it far back toward the corral. Then he backed to his horse, mounted and bolstered his gun.
“Thanks for the breakfast, just the same, Jinyus,” he said.
“Oh, you’re completely welcome.”
Without further conversation he whirled his horse around and galloped off down the road.