They were near the forks of the road, traveling along in the moonlight, when they met five riders, who had swung off the Arrow road and were traveling toward Jack Hartwell’s place. They were Gene Hill, Skinner Close, Micky Hart, Mel Asher and Paul Dazey.
Hashknife tried to crowd past them with the two packed horses, but they swung their horses to block the road.
“Jist about who have we here?” asked Gene Hill. He had been drinking.
“F’r ——’s sake!” blurted Micky Hart. “Looks like a killin’ has been done.”
One of them dismounted and began lighting matches, while the others shoved in closer and looked at the bodies.
“Know either of ’em?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t,” declared Hill. “Do any of you fellers?”
There was a general chorus of negative replies.
“Mind talkin’ about ’em?” asked Micky.
“Down at Totem City I’ll tell about ’em,” said Hashknife. “The sheriff will probably want to know.”
“Prob’ly,” said Gene Hill dryly. “You are the two jiggers that made a getaway from the inquest, eh? I’ll betcha the sheriff will be glad to see yuh. We’ve all been kinda lookin’ for yuh.”
“By golly, that’s right!” exploded Mel Asher.
“And now that you’ve found us?” said Hashknife.
“Well,” said Hill after several moments of silence, “we didn’t want yuh so awful bad, yuh know. The sheriff kinda cussed a little, but as long as you’re goin’ down to see him, I reckon it’ll be all right.”
“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife. “Mebbe you’d like to ride back and hear what I tell the sheriff.”
“We ain’t got time,” said Asher. “We’re on business. But at that, I’d like to hear what yuh tell him.”
“Mebbe he’ll tell yuh later,” laughed Sleepy.
“It all depends,” said Hill, and they moved aside to let Hashknife and Sleepy start on down the road.
As soon as the two cowboys and their pack horses had disappeared, Hill took a bottle from his pocket and passed it around. They were all half drunk, but there was no hilarity.
“That’s enough hooch for now,” declared Hill. “We don’t want to be drunk. I’d sure like to know who them two dead men are. They don’t belong around here.”
“What we ought to have done is to make them two whippoorwills tell us all about it,” said Paul Dazey. “We ain’t got much sense.”
“And if you’d ’a’ seen them two fellers back out of the Arrow bunk house, with their six-guns all set, you’d say it wasn’t none of our —— business,” declared Mel Asher. “We showed pretty good sense, if anybody rises up to ask yuh.”
The sheriff and Sunshine were both asleep in the sheriff’s office when Hashknife and Sleepy hammered on the door. It was nearly morning, but not near enough for Sunshine to awake in good spirits. He came to the door, looked them over with sleepy eyes and wanted to know what in —— they meant by trying to knock down the door.
Hashknife led him out to the horses and showed him the two dead men. This served to jar the sleep out of Sunshine and send him back into the office, where he yelled at the sheriff—
“Hey, Sudden! Git up! There’s been a eppy-demic.”
“Epidemic?” queried Sudden sleepily. “Whatcha mean?”
“C’mon out and look at the dead ones. They’re bringin’ ’em in by the pack load.”
The sheriff came out, sans socks and pants. He squinted queerly at Hashknife and Sleepy, as if wondering just what their attitude would be after what he had done to them at the inquest. Then he turned his attention to the dead men, while Sunshine aided him with matches.
“Bring ’em inside, I reckon,” he said gruffly.
They carried the two bodies in and placed them on the floor, where the sheriff made a closer examination.
“Both of ’em dead,” he decided.
“I’ll betcha that’s why they elected yuh sheriff,” said Sleepy.
“Why is that?” asked the sheriff.
“’Cause yuh catch on to things so easy. Some folks just kinda jump at conclusions, don’tcha know it?”
“Huh!”
Sudden got to his feet and walked over to a chair, where he sat down and looked at the two cowboys.
“Well?” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you fellers ag’in!”
“You didn’t think yuh scared us away, didja?” asked Hashknife.
The sheriff did not seem to know just what to say, so he said nothing.
“Didja ever see either one of these dead men?” asked Sunshine.
The sheriff shook his head.
“Not me. I’d kinda like to hear about it.”
“Yo’re goin’ to,’ grinned Hashknife. “And don’t intimate that I’m lyin’ until after I tell the story.”
“Is there any use of lyin’ about it?”
“Well,” Hashknife grinned softly, “I’ve been tryin’ all the way from Jack Hartwell’s ranch to think up a good lie, but I can’t; so I’ll have to bother yuh with the truth.”
The telling of the story did not take long, as Hashknife did not embellish it in any way. The sheriff and Sunshine listened to every word, exchanging glances occasionally, but neither of them interrupted.
“What was King and this other man doing at Jack’s place?” asked the sheriff, when Hashknife finished.
“I didn’t ask him.”
“And he knew this feller Bates, eh?”
“Yeah—seemed to.”
“Why did Bates kill this partner of King’s?”
“You better ask somebody that knows of their personal affairs, Sheriff. I brought the bodies in, thassall. Outside of my story, I don’t know any more than you do.”
“Uh-huh. Well, we’ll have to take your word for it. There’s a lot of men kinda lookin’ for you two fellers. Some of ’em didn’t leave here so long ago either.”
“We met ’em,” nodded Hashknife. “If they were lookin’ for us, they’ve forgot all about it.”
“My gosh, yuh didn’t kill all five of ’em, didja?” blurted Sunshine.
“Only four,” said Sleepy seriously. “The fifth one saw that he didn’t have a chance, so he shot himself.”
For a moment both the sheriff and deputy swallowed the story, but Hashknife’s grin reassured them that Sleepy was joking.
“I—I wouldn’t put it past yuh,” said Sunshine.
“After what the sheriff did to us at that inquest, I wouldn’t put anythin’ past a human bein’,” declared Hashknife. “It sure was one dirty trick.”
“Aw-w-w-w, ——!” blurted the sheriff, confused. “I—you two——”
“Absolutely,” interrupted Hashknife.
The sheriff’s confusion greatly amused Sunshine.
“Went off half-cocked, eh?” he said. “That’s the trouble with Sudden. That’s where he got his name; always gettin’ himself into a jam. Never thinks twice—that’s Sudden. That’s where he got his name, I tell yuh. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“Ha, ha, ha ——!” snapped Sudden angrily. “You never got yore name because of yore disposition, that’s a cinch.”
“Aw, that’s all right,” said Sunshine. “One thing, I don’t go and decide, too quick on a thing.”
“You ain’t got brains enough to ever decide.”
“Ain’t I?”
“You sure as —— ain’t.”
“You never give me a chance to show what I can do.”
“I know what you’d do.”
“Well, I’d think first, I’ll betcha.”
“Well, go ahead and fight it out,” laughed Hashknife. “We’re goin’ to hunt a place to eat some food.”
“If I was you I’d fade out of Lo Lo Valley,” advised the exasperated sheriff.
“And if I was you, I’d prob’ly be as poor a sheriff as you are,” retorted Hashknife. “We don’t need advice, pardner. If Lo Lo Valley wants us, you tell ’em we’re eatin’ breakfast. And if Lo Lo Valley wants trouble, we’ll accommodate ’em,sabe?”
“Fight ’em all, eh?” sneered the sheriff.
“Yeah—and lick ’em,” retorted Hashknife. “S’long.”
They went up the street, walking stiff-legged and laughing at each other.
“Bad men from Bitter River,” chuckled Sleepy. “I feel as tough as pelican soup. I’ll betcha that single-track-minded sheriff thinks we’re in earnest.”
“If he don’t think we are, he ought to try us,” said Hashknife seriously. “I’m gettin’ tired of bein’ suspected as a sheepherder.”
Totem City was beginning to wake up as they entered the restaurant. They were the first customers of the day, and the sleepy-eyed waiter was none too cheerful. Both Hashknife and Sleepy were badly in need of some sleep, so they drank many cups of black coffee, while the waiter sucked at an extinct cigaret and wondered why these two strangers persisted in staying around Totem City, when they were not wanted. He had heard them discussed considerable.
They had finished eating when old Sam Hodges came in. He had been talking with the sheriff, who had told him about the shooting at Jack Hartwell’s place.
“It’s a danged queer proposition,” he told them. “A lot of them men at the inquest kinda want to salivate you two fellers. That shot yuh fired over our heads made ’em mad, don’tcha know it?”
“If they want us, we’re here,” grinned Hashknife.
“Sure, sure. But that ain’t it, boys. I know yuh. They’d have one —— of a time puttin’ their hands on yuh, but it would be fifty to one, don’tcha see? Now, you fellers show sense. Come out to the Bar 77 and hole up until this is over. There ain’t nobody out there but the cook. ——, I don’t want to see you fellers hurt.”
“That’s fine of yuh, Hodges,” said Hashknife. “We appreciate it a heap. Yo’re plumb white, but we can’t do it. We’ve been shot at. And we never hole up after we’ve been shot at.”
“Uh-huh.” Old Sam squinted thoughtfully. “Well, it ain’t none of my business. I ain’t seekin’ information, but I’ll bet odds that neither one of yuh ever herded sheep nor worked for sheep outfits.”
“Thanks,” dryly.
“Yuh don’t need to thank me.”
“Hodges—” Hashknife slowly moistened the edge of his cigaret paper and shaped his cigaret carefully—“why is that sheep outfit standin’ still?”
“Why? Huh! Well, the dead-line, for one thing.”
“Been any shootin’ up there?”
“A little. Nobody hurt—yet.”
“Just a case of waitin’, eh? Kinda hard on the ranches, ain’t it? All the cowboys on the dead-line thataway.”
“Yeah, I reckon so. But the roundup is over for this year.”
“Uh-huh. Well, mebbe that’s right. Seems to me that King ain’t makin’ a —— of an effort to break through.”
“Maybe he’s tryin’ to outstay us. He’s got pretty good feed up there. He shifted the line a little to the west, but not very much. It kinda looks like he wanted to swing west, but don’t want to do it too openly. I’d like to get my hands on him.”
“What would the cattlemen do to him, Hodges?”
“If they caught him? Well, I don’t know what they’d do. He’s been hated in this valley for so long that the cattlemen would probably declare a holiday and hang him higher than a kite.”
“Then it would be a continual fight, even if he did get a foothold in here, eh?”
“You bet. There’d be plenty of killin’ as long as a sheep remained, Hartley.”
They went out of the restaurant and down to the Totem Saloon. It was a little too early in the morning for much activity. None of them wanted a drink, so they sat down at a card table to smoke and talk. Swampers were engaged in mopping up the floors, while the bartender polished glasses and put the bar in shape for the day’s work.
A swamper went out, carrying two big empty buckets. He stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and stared down the street. After several moments he turned and came back into the saloon.
“The sheriff must ’a’ caught somebody,” he announced. “They’re takin’ several people into the office.”
Hashknife, Sleepy and Hodges hurried to the doorway. There were several saddled horses in front of the office, and Gene Hill was talking with Sunshine.
“Better go down and have a look,” suggested Hashknife, and they moved across the street, heading for the office.
Hill saw them coming and spoke to Sunshine, who moved back to the open door. Micky Hart came into the doorway behind him, and the three of them watched the three men coming down the sidewalk.
“That’s about close enough,” warned Hill nervously.
“Close enough for what?” asked Hashknife.
“Close enough for you to come, stranger.”
“What’s the idea, Gene?” queried Hodges.
“Well, you all stop right there and I’ll tell yuh. We caught Eph King at Jack Hartwell’s place.”
“You—you caught Eph King?”
Hodges could hardly believe this.
“Yo’re —— right we did. And we caught Jack Hartwell along with him, too. The sheriff is fittin’ ’em in cells right now.”
“Well, I’ll be ——ed!” exploded Hodges.
“That sure is good to hear.”
“They were headin’ for there when they passed us,” whispered Sleepy.
The rest of the cowboys came out with the sheriff, talking excitedly, but at sight of Hashknife and Sleepy they stopped talking. Several of them looked at the sheriff, as if expecting him to say something, but he remained silent.
“I hear yuh caught Eph King,” said Hashknife easily. “Do yuh mind lettin’ me talk to him for a minute?”
The sheriff laughed and looked around at the cowboys.
“He’s got about as much chance of that as he has of talkin’ to the King of England, ain’t he?”
“Less than that,” laughed Gene Hill.
“We might put him in, too,” suggested Micky Hart.
“Yeah?” Hashknife grinned widely at Micky. “Yuh might. But it wouldn’t be a healthy dose for the place, cowboy.”
“You don’t want to talk too much,” warned Hill. “You two hombres ain’t any too well balanced around here.”
“Oh, all right,” said Hashknife meekly. “We don’t want to get into trouble.”
“Haulin’ in yore horns, eh?” sneered Hill. “Well, I knew——”
Hashknife started toward Hill, looking him square in the eyes. It was a bold move; a foolish move, under the circumstances. But it got results. Hill started to retreat, not realizing that he was on the edge of a two-foot-high sidewalk. His first backward step dropped his foot off the edge and he sprawled on his back in the hard street. It was such a shock that he made no attempt to get up for several moments.
Hodges laughed outright and the tension was relaxed. Even the sheriff grinned.
“And that ends the mornin’ performance,” said Hashknife. “It’s a good trick—when it works.”
He turned his back on the crowd and walked back toward the Totem Saloon. After a moment’s scrutiny of the crowd, Sleepy turned and followed him, while Gene Hill got to his feet and swore with what little breath he had left.
Hashknife and Sleepy went to the Totem Saloon hitch rack, where they had left their horses, mounted and rode out of town toward the west. The crowd in front of the sheriff’s office watched them and wondered where they were going. But none of them cared to follow. Anyway, they had captured Eph King, and that was quite enough for one day.
They adjourned to the Totem Saloon, where they proceeded to regale themselves with whisky and recite their own deeds of valor. Slim De Larimore rode in after ammunition and found Hork, the storekeeper, swearing a streak.
“Ammunition, ——!” he roared. “I got enough shells on that train last night to supply an army, and some dirty coyote broke into my place last night and stole the whole works! Holy gosh, they not only took the new shipment, but they took everythin’ else!”
“And that leaves us in a fine fix,” declared Slim angrily. “I’m almost out of shells, I tell yuh.”
“Well, ——, I never stole my own ammunition!” wailed Hork.
Slim whirled and walked out of the place, while Hork called down curses upon the heads of those who had robbed him. He was a thrifty soul, was Hork, and it was the monetary loss, not the plight of the cattlemen which caused him to grieve so deeply.
Slim’s thin face expressed deep disgust as he started across the street and met Micky Hart. Slim had eyes of a peculiar greenish cast, and when he grew angry they seemed to intensify in color. For Slim was not of the jovial type, and when Micky related the good news of Eph King’s capture he did not enthuse greatly.
“We’ve got him,” declared Micky, after relating the details. “He was with Jack Hartwell, so we hung ropes on Jack and brought him in, too. I reckon we’ve done pretty well, eh?”
“Why didn’t yuh bring his wife?” asked Slim.
“Aw, ——, yuh can’t do that to a woman, Slim. What the ——? We can find her any old time, and she can’t do no harm now.”
Micky bow-legged his way on across the street. Slim studied the situation for a while, turned away from the saloon entrance, went back to the hitch rack and mounted his horse. For several moments he sat there, deep in thought.
Finally he swung his horse around and rode down to the sheriff’s office, where he dismounted. The sheriff met him at the door.
“Heard the news, have yuh, Slim?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Didja hear about the shootin’ at Jack Hartwell’s place?”
“No. What was that about?”
The sheriff invited him into the office, where he showed him the two bodies. Slim looked them over closely, while the sheriff told him the story as told to him by Hashknife. Slim listened closely to the narrative, but made no comment, except to ask where these two strange cowboys were now.
“Rode out of here a little while ago, Slim. Dunno where they’re goin’. By golly, I don’tsabe’em. They don’t scare worth a ——, either.”
“Uh-huh,” reflected Slim. “Somebody stole that shipment of cartridges that came in last night. Hork’s yellin’ his head off over ’em.”
“Broke into his place? Who in —— would do that, Slim?”
“That’s the question, Sudden—who would?”
“The sheepmen couldn’t, could they?”
“Not very likely.”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff grew thoughtful. Then an idea seemed to strike him.
“Slim, I’ll betcha it was Hartley and Stevens. I tell yuh, they’re here for no good. Yessir, that’s some of their work. What time did them shells arrive?”
“On the train last night, I suppose.”
“Hm-m-m! By grab, I’ll bet they got ’em. Next time I get a chance I’m goin’ to shove them into jail, I tell yuh. They’ve caused me all the worry they’re goin’ to. Want to see King?”
“Aw, to —— with him.”
“Didn’t know but what you’d like to laugh at him, Slim.”
“Naw. I’ve got to be gettin’ back. These crazy punchers chasin’ all over the country, drinkin’ liquor and capturin’ people kinda busts a lot of holes in the dead-line. Next thing we know, we’ll have sheep all over the street down here.”
Slim went out, swung into his saddle and rode out of town, heading north.
Eight armed men were eating a belated lunch at the sheep camp when Hashknife and Sleepy rode their jaded horses up to the huddle of tents and dismounted. They had circled far to the west, beyond the guarded dead-line, to get past the cattlemen.
Under the circumstances it was a foolhardy thing to do; to ride into that sheep camp. A number of saddle horses were tied to the wagons, giving it the appearance of a cattle camp. The sheepmen ceased eating and received them with Winchesters in their hands; a hard-bitten lot of men, who handled their rifles with familiarity.
Steen, the foreman, was there, and met them as they dismounted. He and Hashknife looked keenly at each other for several moments.
“I’ll betcha,” said Hashknife slowly, “I’ll betcha, if yuh had that bunch of hair off yore face, I’d call yuh Bill Steen.”
“Hartley! You old, long-legged galliwimpus!”
Bill Steen almost threw himself at Hashknife, reaching out with both hands. They mauled each other with rough delight, while the sheepmen grinned and stacked their rifles.
“Well, dern yore old soul!” exploded Steen. “Long time I no see yuh, Hashknife.”
“Plenty long,” grinned Hashknife. “Yo’re the last person I ever expected to see up here. Bill, when in —— did you turn to sheep?”
“About five years ago. Oh, I’m an old sheepherder now, Hashknife. It pays me better than the cows did. Well, how in —— are yuh?”
“No better than ever, Bill. This here excess baggage of mine is named Sleepy Stevens. Sleepy, you’ve heard me tell of Bill Steen.”
Sleepy shook hands with him gravely.
“Yeah, I’ve heard yuh tell about him. You and him stole cows together, didn’t yuh?”
“Yeah, we sure did,” laughed Steen.
“But what in —— brought you two fellers up here, I’d like to know? Lookin’ for jobs? If yuh are, you’ve sure got ’em.”
“Yo’re just as comical as ever,” declared Hashknife. “We’re cowpunchers, you old blat-listener. Listen, Bill: We came up to tell yuh that yore boss is in jail at Totem City.”
“Eph King? In jail?”
Hashknife explained in detail, while the sheepmen crowded near to find out how it had happened.
“That’s sure a —— of a note,” said Steen seriously. “I was afraid somethin’ had happened to him, so I sent a man down there an hour ago to see if he could find out somethin’. This here sure is serious news, Hashknife. My ——, they’ll hang Eph King.”
“I’m kinda afraid they will, Bill. And they’ll hang Jack Hartwell along with him.”
“Why would they hang Jack Hartwell?”
“’Cause they think he is a spy for Eph King.”
“Oh, the —— fools! Jack Hartwell’s no spy for us.”
“He’ll have to prove it, Bill.”
“What’ll we do, Bill?” asked one of the men anxiously.
“What became of Mac?” asked another.
“Mac got killed,” said Hashknife. “A man named Boomer Bates shot and killed Mac. Bates is dead, too.”
“Well, for the love of ——!” exploded a sheepman. “What did Boomer Bates shoot MacLeod for?”
“Mistook him for somebody else, I reckon. Were they friends?”
“Well, mebbe they wasn’t friends, but they wasn’t enemies. Mac didn’t even know Bates, I don’t think.”
“And what in —— is Bates doin’ over in this country?” wondered Bill Steen.
No one seemed to know just why Bates might be in Lo Lo Valley.
“There’s a lot of things I don’tsabe,” observed Steen, “and one of ’em is this: Why did you fellers ride plumb up here to tell us that Eph King is in jail?”
Hashknife grinned and began rolling a cigaret.
“Bill,” he said slowly, “I didn’t know you were here. I’m not a —— bit in sympathy with the sheep, but I thought it might be worth my while to come up and tell you what had happened.”
“Just how would it be worth yore while, Hashknife?”
“C’mere.”
Hashknife led him out of earshot, where they squatted on their heels and blew Bull Durham smoke in each other’s faces.
“Go ahead,” grunted Steen.
“Bill—” Hashknife was very serious—“why did the sheep stop where they are?”
“Why?” Steen grinned. “Dead-line.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s fine. And what else?”
“Nothin’ else, Hashknife.”
“I see,” Hashknife nodded and rubbed his long nose. “Bill, what kind of a jigger is Eph King?”
“Hashknife, he’s one of the best yuh ever knew. Oh, I know he’s a sheepman, and all that. He’s got a bad name.” Steen shifted his position and inhaled deeply. “If King was the tough —— they’ve called him, we’d have sheep below Totem City by this time. But he don’t want a lot of killin’. He’s waitin’—well, I dunno.”
“Waitin’ for what, Bill?” queried Hashknife smiling.
“Well, he—he——” Steen faltered. “He thought it would be the best thing to do, Hashknife.”
“All right, Bill. I reckon we’ll be goin’ along.”
“Goin’ back to Totem City?” asked Steen, as they mounted.
“Eventually,” said Hashknife. “Got any word yuh want sent to King?”
Steen smiled grimly, but shook his head.
“Come and see me ag’in, both of yuh,” he said. “There’s always grub and a blanket waitin’ for yuh.”
“Thank yuh, Bill. Adios.”
They rode due east from the sheep camp, staying well above the dead-line. Their horses were fagged from the long ride up the slopes; so they took things easy now. Sleepy did not question Hashknife, but wondered at the reason for the wide swing of the country. It was almost sundown when they came down Deer Creek and swung west again to pass the Turkey Track ranch.
There was no sign of life about the ranch, and they did not stop. A smoke was lazily drifting from the kitchen stovepipe, but that was the only evidence of recent occupation. They came back on to the old road, leading toward Jack Hartwell’s place. Hashknife studied it closely and finally drew rein.
A coyote trotted out of a thick clump of brush below the road, looked them over for a moment and disappeared like a puff of gray-blue smoke. Hashknife reined his horse around and rode down to where the coyote had come out of the brush.
An offensive odor assailed their nostrils, coming, it seemed, from the tangle of brush. Hashknife dismounted and led his horse in through a natural trail to where he discovered the body of a horse, partly eaten by coyotes. Sleepy followed him in, and together they examined the animal. There was a brand mark on its right shoulder, which showed a well marked JN.
“That’s the horse you downed that night,” said Hashknife. “It’s a wonder to me that they didn’t cut out that brand.”
They went out of the brush, mounted and rode on toward Jack Hartwell’s place, keeping a close watch on all sides. They knew this to be hostile territory, and did not care to run into trouble. Their horses were too tired to show much speed, and the two riders were red eyed from lack of sleep.
They rode in at Jack Hartwell’s place and dismounted. The front door was open, but there was no one in sight.
“Looks kinda queer around here,” said Hashknife, as he looked in through the doorway.
There was an upset table in the center of the room, a smashed vase and a litter of odds and ends on the carpet. A rocking-chair, with one arm broken off, leaned drunkenly against the wall, and a window on the east side of the room, looked as if some one had shoved an elbow through the pane.
“Holy gee!” whistled Sleepy, as they surveyed the wreckage. “They must pulled off a wrestlin’ match, when they arrested King and Jack.”
“It sure looks like it,” agreed Hashknife, as he crossed the room and peered into the kitchen.
“C’mere!” he called to Sleepy. “Somebody got snagged.”
There was a well-defined trail of blood across the kitchen floor, leading out of the back door. They went outside and picked up the trail again. It led them straight to the corral, where they found a man, lying face down, almost against the fence.
He had been shot through the left side, below the heart, but he was still alive. They carried him carefully to the house, where Hashknife cut away his shirt and examined the wound, which had stopped bleeding externally. He was not a man that either of them had ever seen before.
“I’ll betcha this is the man that Bill Steen sent down here to find Eph King,” said Hashknife. “Now, what do yuh reckon he ran into down here?”
Sleepy got some water and they washed the wounded man’s face. It was all they could do for him. They forced a few drops between his teeth and after a few minutes he opened his eyes, looking dazedly up at them.
“All right, pardner,” said Hashknife. “Just take it easy and see if yuh can talk.”
The man frowned, as if trying to remember. Hashknife gave him another drink, which he took greedily, although he was almost too weak to swallow it.
“Do yuh remember what happened?” asked Sleepy.
The man shut his eyes, and they thought he had fainted, but he opened them again. He tried to take a deep breath, but choked with the pain. Then he made the supreme effort and whispered—
“Ed—shot—me.”
It was a very faint whisper, in which he added—“He—took—the—woman.”
For a moment he tried to say more, but the words would not come. Then he seemed to relax instantly and his eyes closed. Hashknife got slowly to his feet and looked around.
“So Ed got the woman, eh?” he muttered. “Now, who in —— is Ed?”
“I wish we had some whisky,” mourned Sleepy.
“What for?”
“To give him a shot. Strong liquor—”
“Wouldn’t do him any good, Sleepy; he’s dead.”
“Well,” said Sleepy vacantly, “I—the poor son-of-a-gun. What’ll we do with him?”
“Nothin’, Sleepy. We can’t keep on carryin’ dead men to town. I’m tired of bein’ a travelin’ morgue, so I reckon we’ll shut the door and leave him here for a while. It kinda looks like somebody by the name of Ed came along and took Hartwell’s wife.”
“My gosh, do yuh reckon he done that, Hashknife?”
“Yuh can’t dispute a dead man, can yuh? We’ve got to find this here Ed person and get an explanation. C’mon.”
They fastened the door, mounted their horses and rode on toward Totem City. It was growing dark now.
“If I ever get my sylph-like form between sheets, I’ll never get up,” declared Sleepy. “I’m plumb bug-eyed, I tell yuh. Night don’t mean nothin’ to me, except darkness. That Hartwell place is a hoodoo, I tell yuh. Every time we show up there we run into death. Well, why don’tcha say somethin’, Hashknife? Do a little talkin’, can’tcha?”
“Talk about what?”
“Anythin’, dang it. I’ve got to talk, hear talkin’ or go to sleep on this frazzle-legged bronc. If I fall off, don’tcha dare to pick me up. Just figure that I’m dead and lemme lay, cowboy. Why don’tcha sing? My ——, you’d sing at any other time.”
“Cows!” exclaimed Hashknife, jerking up his horse.
The road ahead of them was full of cows, the slope below them was a moving mass of cows, and more cows were coming down a cañon and crossing the road. Hashknife dismounted and Sleepy followed suit. It was impossible to estimate the number of cattle that crossed the road ahead of them.
And behind them came riders, not visible against the darkness of the landscape, but audible. One of them snapped a bull whip, like the report of a small pistol. Then they drifted away in the night, leaving only the odor of dust and cattle. They were traveling in a southeasterly direction, as near as the two cowboys could judge.
“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy as they got wearily back on their horses and went ahead. “Reckon it was within the law?”
“It didn’t look like it, Sleepy, but my bronc is too tired to run away from trouble, and I’m too sleepy to shoot my way out of it. Anyway, I’m kinda losin’ my affection for these Lo Lo cattlemen.”
They stabled their horses at Totem City and went to a restaurant. Sudden Smithy was there with Sunshine. Sudden nodded curtly, and his face showed little enthusiasm when Hashknife and Sleepy sat down at his table.
Sunshine merely grunted and kept up a steady attack on his plate of food. Hashknife and Sleepy had noticed that there were quite a number of horses at the hitch racks: Evidence that all of the cowpunchers were not out at the dead-line. Sudden seemed slightly nervous and often squinted toward the front windows.
The waiter was just placing their food on the table, when in came Matthew Hale, the prosecuting attorney. He came straight to the sheriff, paying no attention to the other three men.
“Well?” said the sheriff coldly.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Hale. “Several of the men are over in Hork’s place, and it’s beginning to look dangerous. You know as well as I do that you can’t keep King and Hartwell in jail without a specific charge against them. As far as I know there is nothing against them. They were not arrested by the law; merely kidnaped.”
“All right,” grunted Sudden angrily. “I suppose yuh want me to turn ’em loose, eh?”
“I merely want you to comply with the law, Sheriff. It seems to me, that with all this shooting going on, and dead men, whose deaths have not been investigated, there should be something for the sheriff’s office to do beside keeping men in jail, against whom there have been no charges made, who have never even been arrested.”
Sleepy innocently clapped his hands by way of applause.
It angered Sudden. He whirled on Sleepy, who met his glare with an expression of angelic innocence.
“Ain’t he the talker?” queried Sleepy. “Silv’ry tongued, and all that. No wonder they sends lawyers to Congress.”
It was all said with such sincerity that Sudden turned and looked at Hale, as if wondering just what Hale had said.
“—— fool!” grunted Sunshine, his mouth filled with food.
“Mebbe,” said Sleepy, “but he don’t talk like one.”
“I meant you,” growled Sunshine.
“Check the bet,” laughed Sleepy.
Hale was looking closely at Hashknife, and now he said to Sudden:
“These are the two men who—uh—went away from the inquest, are they not?”
“Yeah, —— ’em!” growled Sudden. “They’re always around where they ain’t wanted.”
“If I remember correctly you made a specific charge against them at—”
“Now, just hang on to yoreself,” advised Hashknife. “We’ve been charged just about all we’re goin’ to be. You bunch of narrow-headed Lo Lo-ites are up against enough real grief, without tryin’ to fasten somethin’ on to me and Sleepy Stevens.
Yo’re asleep, that’s what you are. My ——, I dunno how you’ve prospered at all.”
He turned on the sheriff.
“Who’s Ed?”
“Ed who?”
“Just Ed. There must be somebody around here named Ed.”
“Well, let’s see.”
Sudden frowned thoughtfully. He knew almost every man in Lo Lo Valley by his first name. Sunshine had lived there for years, as had Matthew Hale, but none of them was able to give Hashknife the slightest assistance.
“That is rather peculiar,” said Hale thoughtfully. “In all the valley, I do not know one man by that name. There was old Ed Barber, of course.”
“But he’s dead,” said Sudden. “Nossir, I don’t know of one man by that name. What’s the idea, Hartley?”
“I’ve got to find Ed—who ever he is, Sudden—because he’s the man who killed another man at Jack Hartwell’s place today, and took Mrs. Jack Hartwell along with him.”
“What in —— are you talkin’ about?” exploded the sheriff, getting to his feet.”
“Took Mrs. Hartwell and ——”
“Set down,” advised Hashknife. “Don’t get excited. She’s gone, thassall. The house looks like a cyclone had swept through it, and there’s a dead man propped up on the sofy. Ed shot him, so he said, before he died. And he lived long enough to say that Ed took the woman. The woman must have been Mrs. Hartwell.”
“For ——’s sake!” gasped Hale. “What is this country coming to, anyway? When they steal women——”
“Who was the dead man?” asked Sudden.
“I don’t know,” Hashknife shook his head. “He was one of King’s men, who was sent from the sheep camp to find out why King didn’t come back. Mebbe he tried to protect the woman and got killed.”
Yeah?” Sudden got to his feet, his jaw set tightly. “How in —— do you know all this, Hartley?”
Hashknife smiled at him, shoved his plate aside and rested his elbows on the table,
“Mebbe it’s because I haven’t lived here so long that I’ve got cobwebs in my brain and scales over my eyes, Sheriff. Another question: Who owns the JN brand?”
“JN? I don’t know it. What’s the JN brand got——”
“I’m askin’ questions—not answerin’ ’em. Have yuh got a brand registry at yore office?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one.”
“Then let’s go and find out where it is located—this JN outfit.”
They paid for their meal and went outside. Hale was interested enough to go with them. As they crossed the street, going toward Hork’s store, the sheriff stopped, with a muttered exclamation. It was too dark to distinguish clearly, but in the yellow lights from the opposite building, there appeared to be a number of horses in front of the sheriff’s office.
“What the —— is goin’ on down there?” wondered Sudden.
The sheriff grunted and started down the middle of the street, when, from a point about midway between them and the office, some one fired a gun. The shooter blended into the wall of the building and was not visible, and his shot was evidently fired into the air as a warning.
A moment later several bullets whispered past the five men in the street, and they all broke for shelter. Hashknife and Sleepy ran across toward Hork’s store, while the others scattered separately.
Men came running out of the store, only to be driven back by a fusillade of bullets, which splintered the wooden sidewalks and bit chunks out of Hork’s porch posts. Hashknife and Sleepy flattened themselves against the building. Here and there a door crashed shut, as men decided that the street was no place to be in that storm of lead.
And about a minute later a group of horsemen swept up the street from the jail, shooting promiscuously to drive every one off the street. A bullet smashed through a window beside Hashknife and Sleepy, and they dropped flat. But as the horsemen rode through the cross lights of the Totem Saloon and Hork’s store, they saw the huge figure of Eph King, sitting straight in the saddle, leading his men out of the town where he was so badly hated.
The dust of the passing horsemen had settled before Totem City crawled out of their holes to see what it was all about. Hashknife and Sleepy ran down to the sheriff’s office and found the sheriff and Sunshine in there viewing the wreckage. For once in his life, Sudden Smithy could not find words to express his feelings.
Both prisoners were gone. The front door of the office sagged on one hinge, and two of the cell doors had been sprung so badly that they would never function again. The sheepmen had left two big crowbars, an ax and ten pounds of dynamite. It was evident that they were prepared for any emergency.
In a few minutes the office was filled with inquiring men. Sudden Smithy finally recovered his powers of speech, and their questions were met by a flow of bitter profanity. Sudden had, at one time, been a muleskinner, and his profane vocabulary was almost inexhaustible. In fact, Sudden was in no condition to talk coherently of what had happened, so Sunshine told them that the sheepmen had smashed the jail and had taken away Eph King and Jack Hartwell.
“Yuh should ’a’ known they’d do that,” said a cowboy.
This was sufficient to send Sudden into paroxysms of profanity, as he congratulated the cowboy on his wisdom.
“Well, we should,” agreed Sunshine, and this caused Sudden to choke on his own words and become silent.
“Jist about how did the sheepmen know that King was here?” asked one of the crowd.
Sudden looked at the speaker for a moment. He remembered that Hashknife and Sleepy had ridden out of town immediately following the locking up of King and Jack Hartwell, and he also remembered that Hashknife had seemed to know too much about the death of the man who had come to Hartwell’s place looking for King. Then Sudden threw up his hand in a signal for silence.
“I’ll tell yuh who told ’em!” he yelled. “The same men I accused of bein’ King’s spies last night.”
Hashknife was almost at his elbow, and between him and the door, looking at a book, which he had picked up from Sudden’s desk, while Sleepy was further back in the room.
As the sheriff spoke he whirled to grasp Hashknife by the arm, as if to place himself between Hashknife and the door, but Hashknife was fully alive to his danger, and when Sudden tried to jump past him, Hashknife’s right hand whipped through in an uppercut, and the Lo Lo sheriff’s teeth shut with a dull “cluck!” and he went down on his shoulders.
The sheriff had hardly hit the floor when Hashknife ducked out through the doorway, knocking a cowboy spinning along the wall. Sleepy sprang across the sheriff and tried to escape, but they fell upon him in a group, and he went down on his face, with half a dozen men on top of him.
The room was in an uproar, as others jammed into the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of Hashknife; but all they glimpsed was a rider going away from the Totem hitch rack. Whether or not it was the leanfaced cowboy they did not know. So they went back and helped the rest subdue Sleepy, who was making life miserable for everyone concerned. But there is strength in numbers, and in a few minutes Sleepy was behind the bars of the only intact cell in the jail, while the sheriff held on to his jaw with both hands and swore through his nose. There were others who had suffered from Sleepy’s toes and fists, and they were equally divided as whether to hang him right away or to wait until they all had a drink. The drink idea finally carried, and they trooped over to the Totem Saloon, leaving the sheriff and Sunshine alone in the office.
“You talked too —— much,” said Sunshine with little sympathy. He had been kicked in the ankle.
“Ozz zhut ’p!” groaned Sudden.
“If yuh had any sense, you’d ’a’ shot ’em both and then told the crowd what yuh shot ’em for. By ——, if I’m ever elected sheriff of this county, I’ll show ’em.”
Sudden did not think it worth while replying to Sunshine. It was difficult for him to talk, and he felt that all of his teeth had been driven at least an inch deep into his jaws. He got to his feet, kicked his chair aside and started for the door.
“Stay here,” he ordered. “Goin’ ’fter drink.”
“Yeah, I’ll stay here,” snapped Sunshine. “But if them snake-hunters come and want to lynch that jigger—they can have him.”
Sudden grunted and walked out. Sunshine rubbed his ankle, after removing his boot, and the pain made him wince. He had stepped into range of Sleepy’s kicks, and now he cursed reflectively.
“Mary Sunshine!” called Sleepy. “Can I have a drink of water?”
Sunshine told him in plain profanity where he could go and get water.
“Got a mean disposition, ain’t yuh?” laughed Sleepy. “What are you so sore about? Did you get hurt?”
“Well, I got kicked in the ankle, and it’s all black-and-blue.”
“Oh, excuse me,” said Sleepy seriously. “I didn’t mean to kick you, Sunshine.”
“Well,” said Sunshine doubtfully, “I dunno whether yuh meant to do it, but yuh sure done it real good.”
He got up and limped into the rear, where he got a cup of water. He carried the oil lamp with him to the cell door and handed the cup to Sleepy. But it was not a hand that reached for the cup—it was the barrel of a big six-shooter that shoved out through the bars and almost punched Sunshine in the waist.
“Now,” said Sleepy, “you open this door and be —— quick.”
“Uh?”
Sunshine almost dropped the lamp. He did drop the cup, which clattered on the floor inside the cell.
“Wh-where did yuh-yuh get that gun?”
“Unlock that cell!” snapped Sleepy. “My finger itches, Sunshine.”
The deputy’s hand went gingerly to his pocket and he took out the key. The big gun fairly bored into his middle, as he leaned forward and unlocked the cell door. Then he stepped back and let the prisoner out.
“That’s a lot better,” said Sleepy, grinning. “I reckon I’ll go out the back door and take you along with me. C’mon.”
“I don’tsabewhere yuh got that gun,” complained Sunshine.
“Foresight,” grinned Sleepy. “I was afraid there might be a lot of foolish questions asked, with all them folks gatherin’ around, so I put my gun inside my shirt. Mebbe it was a foolish thing to do, but I didn’t want to have to kill somebody, yuh see.”
“Yo’re smart,” applauded Sunshine as he preceded Sleepy out to the rear. “I s’pose Sudden will be sore as —— but he mostly always is, anyway.”
“Now, you can go back with yore light,” said Sleepy. “Adios.”
“So long,” said Sunshine sadly.
He marched back into the building, carrying his lamp, while Sleepy ran swiftly back out of the narrow alley. He did not know where to find Hashknife, and was not going to try, but he was going to be sure that those cattlemen did not get hold of him in their present humor.