But Hashknife had not deserted his partner. He had “lifted” a good-looking horse from the Totem hitch rack, circled the town and tied it to another hitch rack on the opposite side of town and on a side street. Now he was planning just how to get Sleepy freed. He did not know what had been done to Sleepy, but he felt sure that Sleepy was in jail.
The crowd was drinking in the Totem Saloon across the street from him, which made him feel more sure that Sleepy was behind the bars. He could see the sheriff at the bar. No doubt they had decided that he—Hashknife—had left Totem City, so they would not be looking for him to show up very soon.
He had made up his mind to go down and stick-up the guards, when he saw Sunshine come out of the office and hurry diagonally across the street toward the Totem Saloon. Some men had come out of the saloon, and Sunshine met them. Hashknife strained his ears to hear what was being said. One of the men called to the sheriff, who came out, still caressing his sore jaw.
Came a low buzz of conversation, and then the sheriff’s voice was raised in lamentation and profanity.
“Got away?” he wailed. “Had a gun inside his shirt? Gone?”
“I jist told yuh——”
Thus Sunshine angrily.
“Yo’re a —— of a deputy!”
“You put him in!”
“Don’tcha blame me!”
They were talking at the top of their voices, so Hashknife sneaked away, laughing. Sleepy had escaped. By the light of a match Hashknife examined his horse and found that it wore a Bar 77 brand, belonging to old Sam Hodges.
“I’ve got a good horse and no place to go,” he told himself.
He leaned against the hitch rack and tried to figure out what to do, but the lack of sleep had muddled his brain until he thought in circles.
“Got to have some sleep or lose my place in the procession.” He rubbed his nose and considered things. He did not dare go to the little hotel, and he did not want to sleep out in the open. Then he got an inspiration. Leaving the horse at the rack, he went around back of the buildings until he came to the sheriff’s stable. Cautiously he went inside and climbed into the loft. There was plenty of nice soft hay.
He crawled back to the rear and started to burrow down, when his hand came in contact with human flesh. It was a man’s face. Hashknife’s hand stole slowly back to his gun and he waited for the man to make a move. But instead of a move, the man said:
“Lemme alone, will yuh? ’S funny a feller can’t sleep.”
“Sleepy!” blurted Hashknife. “Is this you?”
“Go sleep. Who in —— do yuh think it is—Rip Van Winkle?”
And their snores blended thankfully.
Marsh Hartwell was at home that night when Bert Allen, of the Circle V, rode in and told him of the jailbreak. Allen was on his way back to the dead-line, and stopped only long enough to tell what had happened in Totem City.
“And them other two jiggers got plumb away, too,” declared Allen disgustedly. “The tall one knocked Sudden cold, swiped one of the Bar 77 broncs from the Totem Saloon hitch rack and hit for the hills.
“We caught the other one and threw him into a cell. But he had a gun inside his shirt, and when Sunshine brought him a cup of water he stuck the gun into Sunshine’s ribs and made him unlock the door. They’re kinda bad medicine, them two, Marsh.”
“I wonder if they are workin’ for King?” said Marsh.
“I’ll be danged if I know. If they are, King’s got two danged capable men, Marsh. Jist think of them two hangin’ around all the time, with most everybody ready to take a shot at ’em. I’d sure hit for the timber, if I was them.”
Mrs. Hartwell and Mrs. Brownlee had heard Allen’s story. It was the first time that Mrs. Hartwell had known that Jack had been arrested. After Allen’s departure, Marsh and the two women sat in the living room of the ranch house; Marsh puzzling his mind over what to do; the two women waiting for him to speak.
“Well,” he said slowly, bitterly, “I suppose that Jack is on the other side of the dead-line now—to stay.”
“Could you blame him, Marsh?” asked Mrs. Hartwell softly.
“Blame him? Why not?”
“After the way he has been treated, Marsh.”
The man sighed deeply, as he humped over his chair. He was physically and mentally tired, weary of the struggle. Just now he did not care if the sheep engulfed the whole valley.
“What about Molly?” asked Mrs. Hartwell.
Marsh looked up at her.
“What do you mean, Mother?”
“She’s alone over there, Marsh.”
“She’s probably across the dead-line, too.”
“Probably. But we don’t know that she is. And you know that there isn’t a more lonesome place in the valley. And more than that, Marsh: It isn’t safe for a woman to be alone now.”
“Jack isn’t in jail now. He’d be with her.”
“Would he? With every cattleman in the valley against him?”
“Even his own father,” said Mrs. Brownlee dismally.
“No!” Marsh Hartwell threw up his head. “Don’t say that! —— knows I’m sorry for what I’ve done to Jack. I hated Eph King so much that—well, it made me bitter to have my own son marry his daughter. I didn’t realize what it meant, I tell you.
“I’m not against my own son! I’ve been against him—yes. I’m a big man in Lo Lo Valley. They say that Marsh Hartwell is the biggest man in this county. I know I am.” His voice softened as he looked at the two astonished woman. “I’m big—in this valley—but I’m just findin’ out that I’m a ——ed small man in my own home.”
“Marsh!” Mrs. Hartwell got to her feet and crossed to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Marsh, you—you’ll help Jack and Molly?”
“Yes, I’ll help them, Mother—if they’ll let me. It’s awful late in the game to talk about helpin’ ’em, but I’ll do all I can to make up for what I’ve done to them.”
He got to his feet, shoved her gently aside and started for the door.
“I’m goin’ after my horse,” he told them. “I’ll see if I can coax Molly into comin’ over here to stay until this trouble is all over.”
He went out, leaving the door open. Mrs. Hartwell sank down in a rocking-chair, burying her head in her arms. Mrs. Brownlee patted her on the shoulder, the tears running down her cheeks.
“Don’t cry, Ma,” she begged. “Don’t cry about it.”
“Cry about it?” Mrs. Hartwell lifted her old face, her eyes misty with tears. “Cry about it? I’m not crying—I’m laughing. It has taken your father twenty years to find out that God made him just like other men.”
“Maybe,” said Mrs. Brownlee softly, “Maybe dad has found out that he isn’t such a big man after all, Ma.”
“And maybe,” said Mrs. Hartwell wistfully, “I have found out that he is bigger than he was.”
Came the scrape of a footstep on the porch, and they looked up at Jack, standing in the doorway, the palm of his right hand resting on the butt of his gun.
“Is Molly here?” he asked hoarsely.
“Molly?” His mother got up and came close to him. “She isn’t here, Jack.”
“Ain’t she?” He leaned his shoulder wearily against the doorway, shaking his head. “I—I thought she might be. I just came from home. There’s a dead man on the sofa, and the furniture is all upset. It wasn’t that way when they took me and Eph King to jail.”
“Didn’t she leave any word, Jack—no note nor anything?”
He shook his head and came into the room.
“Where’s Marsh Hartwell?”
He did not call him “Dad.”
But before either of the women had a chance to reply, the sheriff and Sunshine Gallagher stepped through the doorway behind Jack. The sheriff held a gun in his hand. Jack turned quickly, his hand going instinctively toward his holstered gun.
“Don’t do it, Jack,” warned the sheriff quickly.
“Well, what do you want?” queried Jack coldly.
“Well, I dunno,” Sudden Smithy seemed uncertain. “I—uh——”
“Don’t move!” growled a voice at the door.
Marsh Hartwell was humped in the doorway, a gun tensed in his big hand, a scowl almost concealing his eyes. He looked like a big bear, reared on its hind legs, looking for fight.
“Don’t move,” he cautioned again.
“Who in ——’s movin’?” grunted Sunshine.
“Just don’t,” warned Marsh. “I seen you come, Sudden. Now, what do you want here? Better drop that gun on the table.”
The sheriff tossed the gun on to the table, and relaxed.
“I don’t know just what I did expect to find, Marsh. You know what happened tonight in Totem City, don’tcha? Hartley and Stevens got away, and I kinda wondered—we were headin’ for Jack’s place, but decided to come here first.”
He turned to Jack.
“Have you been home?”
Jack nodded quickly.
“Is yore wife there?”
“No. That’s why I came——”
“Hartley said she was gone. Was there a dead man——?”
“On the sofa.” Jack came close to Sudden. “What do you know about it, Smithy?”
Sudden told him what Hashknife had said.
“Did he mean that some one had taken her away by force?” demanded Jack.
“I don’t know. Did she know any one by the name of Ed?”
Jack shook his head quickly.
“There’s nobody around here by that name, Sudden.”
“Mebbe it’s some of the sheep outfit,” suggested Sunshine.
“But, if it was, why did he kill one of King’s men? Hartley said the dead man was sent there to find out why King didn’t come back. He lived long enough to say a few words, it seems.”
“Well, who is this Hartley?” queried Marsh. “Every one talks about him and nobody seems to know for sure who or what he is. They say he’s a spy for King, but——”
“That’s a lie,” interrupted Jack. “Eph King never seen either of them two fellers until just before they captured and took us to jail. I’ll stake my life that they are not spies.”
“They’re somethin’, that’s a cinch,” declared Sunshine. “It ain’t reasonable to suppose that two men of their brains would be just bummin’ around. Them two jiggers think. Stevens thought far enough ahead to hide a gun inside his shirt. By golly, that’s lookin’ into the future.”
“Would they have anything to do with the disappearance of your wife?” asked Sudden of Jack.
“No. They’re not that kind.”
“If they merely got left by a train, why do they stay here and take all these chances?” asked Marsh. “What is there here for them? It don’t look reasonable.”
Sudden shook his head slowly.
“I dunno, Marsh. Somebody shot a horse—my horse—from under Hartley the night they came. I don’t think they had any idea who it was, and it may be that they’re tryin’ to find out. I’ve had an idea that they were hired by Eph King, but mebbe I’m wrong.”
“Well, we’ve got to find out what became of Molly,” said Marsh, “and we’d better start right now. Goin’ with us, sheriff?”
“That’s what I’m hired for, Marsh. C’mon.”
It did not take long for them to ride over to Jack’s place. The sheriff examined the house, looking for a possible clue, which he did not find. Then he loaded the body of the dead sheepherder on to his saddle.
“There ain’t nothin’ we can do,” he declared helplessly. “We ain’t got a thing to go on.”
“That’s true,” agreed Marsh.
Jack made no comment. He realized that it would be useless for him to go searching the hills for his wife. In fact, he was not sure that she had not gone of her own free will. He did not know any one by the name of Ed.
The sheriff mounted behind the dead man and they rode back to the Arrow, where Marsh invited Jack to spend the rest of the night. But Jack refused.
“I’m goin’ to town,” he decided. “I’ve got to find some trace of Molly. They’d know at the depot if she went away on a train. I’m not afraid of the cattlemen now.”
And so Jack Hartwell rode back to Totem City with Sudden Smithy, Sunshine Gallagher and the sheepherder who had not lived long enough to tell who Ed was.
“Yep—took the whole —— stock. Never even left a box of .22 shells. Even took a couple boxes of ten gage shotgun shells. And, by gosh, them shells cost money! Yuh can’t buy ca’tridges for nothin’, y’betcha. If I ever find out who took ’em, they’ll sure think they’re at a shivaree.”
It was the following morning that Hork bewailed the loss of his ammunition to Hashknife and Sleepy. It was a blow from which he would never quite recover. Hashknife and Sleepy had crawled out of Sudden Smithy’s stable, washed in the horse trough, and eaten a big breakfast at the restaurant.
Their escape from the cattlemen the night before had not seemed to teach them caution. They had heard Sudden and Sunshine ride away from the stable the night before, and later on they had heard them come back and unsaddle their horses. Sudden had talked about taking a dead man to Doctor Owen, so Hashknife decided that they had been out to Jack Hartwell’s place.
A good sleep and a full meal had put new life into both of the cowboys, and they were ready for anything that Totem City might have to offer them. They had purchased some Durham from Hork, who swore that he was crippled from the loss of the ammunition, and that the profit on two sacks of Durham looked smaller to him than the thin end of nothing, whittled to a point.
“I heard about you two fellers last night,” he told them. “I dunno whether yo’re wise in stayin’ here or not. Sudden don’t quite figure you fellers out, and he said last night that when the gall was passed around, you two must ’a’ been served first.”
“We slept in Sudden’s loft,” grinned Hashknife.
“In his loft? Huh! Well, I reckon Sudden was right. Jimmy Healey was worryin’ around about one of yuh swipin’ his horse from the Totem hitch rack. He howled his head off, until he finds it around on a side street, and everybody swore that Jimmy was so absent-minded that he forgot where he left it.”
A customer came in and engaged the attention of Hork, so Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back to the front of the store. Two men had just ridden in and were dismounting at a hitch rack across the street. Jack Hartwell came out of the Totem Saloon and started across toward the store. He paid no attention to the two riders who crossed in close behind him.
As Jack reached the sidewalk in front of the store, the two men came up to him, and one of them made an sneering remark. Jack turned quickly and looked at them. They were Casey Steil and Al Curt, of the Turkey Track outfit. Hashknife stepped swiftly out through the open doorway, so softly that Curt and Steil did not hear him.
“Just what did you say, Steil?” asked Jack calmly.
“You heard me; didn’t he Al?” Casey Steil laughed throatily.
“I wasn’t sure,” said Jack. “I’d want to be sure, Steil.”
“Touchy, eh?” Al Curt spat thoughtfully. “Go ahead and tell him what yuh said, Casey.”
“Since when did they start callin’ you by a good Irish name?”
Hashknife spoke softly, but, from the way Steil and Curt whirled to face him, it might have been an explosion.
Curt’s hand had made a motion, as if to reach toward his holster, but the hand and arm seemed paralyzed.
“Well, if it ain’t ‘Wide-loop’ Curt!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Sleepy, c’mere and take a look. Introducin’ Lee Steil and old Wide-loop, Sleepy. Gents, get used to lookin’ at Sleepy Stevens.”
Hashknife’s eyes bored into the faces of the two confused cowboys, while behind him Sleepy laughed joyfully.
“Mamma mine!” he chuckled. “Only two like ’em in captivity, Hashknife. Somebody must have a taste for knickknacks.”
“Couple of soiled souls,” declared Hashknife seriously.
“What the —— is this all about?” demanded Steil angrily.
“Don’t let yore lily-white hands get nervous,” advised Hashknife. “Mebbe yore lips won’t let yuh admit that yuh recognize us, but down deep in yore hearts, there’s somethin’ that tells yuh to be careful where yuh put yore hands—Casey Steil.”
“Let ’em do as they please,” said Sleepy, grinning. “I’d just like to see old Wide-loop forget that he’s a shade too slow to take a chance. Casey acts like he had tonsilitis. He ought to try a cyanid gargle.”
Jack Hartwell grinned. He knew that these four men had met before, and that there was something in the meeting now that boded no good for Steil and Curt. In fact those two worthies were wishing that they were far from Totem City.
“You ain’t got nothin’ on us.” Thus Curt rather painfully.
“What made yuh say that?” grinned Hashknife.
“Yuh ain’t!” declared Steil vehemently.
“You sure of that?” asked Hashknife softly.
Steil squinted narrowly at Hashknife for a moment. Then—
“—— sure.”
“Then don’t let me get anythin’ on yuh, Steil. Yo’re a dirty horse thief, a crook and a liar. I dunno what yo’re doin’ here in Lo Lo Valley, but I’m goin’ to find out. And that same goes for Wide-loop Curt.”
Jack stepped back, watching them closely for the gun play which did not materialize. Without a word, Curt and Steil turned, walked across the street and went into the Totem Saloon. Neither did they look back.
“And that,” said Jack musingly, “beats anythin’ I have ever seen. Steil and Curt are supposed to be gun fighters, Hartley.”
Hashknife sighed deeply and turned to Jack.
“Didja find yore wife, Hartwell?”
“Not even a trace of her. My ——, I don’t know where to look. She didn’t leave here on the train last night. Just what did that man tell you before he died?”
Hashknife told him the exact words. Jack shook his head wearily.
“Not a man by that name in this country, Hartley. It might have been a sheepman, of course.”
“Yeah, that might be,” agreed Hashknife dubiously. “But if it was, why did he shoot the other one?”
“—— only knows, Hartley. I don’t know what to do, where to look, or anythin’.”
They moved back into the store and sat down on the counter.
“Where did you ever know Al Curt?” asked Jack.
“He’s originally from Montana,” said Hashknife. “We knowed him in Idaho. They called him Wide-loop up there. Steil used to be around Wyomin’, Nevada, and maybe he nosed up into Idaho, too.”
“They’ve been here about a year,” said Jack, “but they’ve played straight, I think. They both work for the Turkey Track.”
“Owned by the duke of somethin’-or-other, ain’t it?” grinned Sleepy.
“Slim De Larimore. He’s no duke.”
“Steil and Curt work for him, eh?”
“Yeah. There’s another feller named Allison.”
“Allison? I reckon he’s a stranger to us. I don’t like to knock anybody, but I’d sure like to tip this De Larimore person off to watch Steil and Curt. They’d steal him blind if they had a chance.”
“They’ll not steal much from Slim. He’s cast-iron, that feller. I’ll betcha that nitric acid wouldn’t faze him.”
“Cold-blooded, eh?”
“Y’betcha. Good cowman, too. He’s been here over two years. Bought the Turkey Track from Buck Fenner’s widow. It wasn’t much of a place at that time, but Slim has built it up pretty good. He’s from Texas.”
“Thasso?” Hashknife humped over and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Well, some folks do make a success. I dunno how they do it—I know danged well I can’t.”
He slid off the counter, drew a folded book from his pocket and said to Sleepy:
“You set here and rest yore face and hands while I take this brand registry back to the sheriff. I had it in my hand when they run me out last night.”
“All right,” grinned Sleepy. “Didja find out who owns that JN outfit?”
“Yeah, I found out. Feller by the name of Jack Noonan. Ranch is located on the other side of Sunland Basin.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Jack. “They call him ‘Calamity Jack.’”
“Well, that’s a good name,” laughed Hashknife, as he went out on to the sidewalk.
He looked toward the Totem Saloon, but did not happen to notice that Steil and Curt were mounting at the hitch rack. They had seen him come out of the store, and as he started down toward the sheriff’s office, they swung into their saddles.
They were not more than a hundred feet from him, as they swung their horses into the street, and, without any warning, Steil drew a gun, jerked his horse to a standstill, and deliberately shot at Hashknife.
The tall cowboy jerked back, quickly crumpled at the knees and sprawled on the sidewalk. Steil’s gun was lifted for a second shot, but now he whirled his horse and they went racing out of town in a cloud of dust.
Sleepy and Jack almost fell off the counter when the shot was fired, and ran swiftly to the door. There was only a screen of dust to show that the riders were leaving town. Several men had run out of the Totem Saloon, and Sudden Smithy was running up the street from the sheriff’s office.
Sleepy was the first to reach Hashknife and turn him over.
“My —— where did he hit yuh?” panted Sleepy, his face white with the fear of losing his pal.
He began yanking at Hashknife’s shirt, when Hashknife sat up and reached for his hat.
“Hey? What the ——!” blurted Sleepy.
“Stumbled,” explained Hashknife. “Stubbed my toe.” He got to his feet and dusted off his knees.
“Hello, sheriff—” handing him the brand registry—“this belongs to you, I reckon. I had it in my hand when they chased me last night, and I was bringin’ it to yuh.”
“Uh-huh.” Sudden accepted the book wonderingly. “Yeah, thanks. Now, what in —— was goin’ on around here? Who was doin’ the shootin’?”
“It was Steil or Curt,” said a man from the Totem. “I wasn’t where I could see which one it was.”
“Was they shootin’ at you, Hartley?”
“At me?” Hashknife looked blankly at the sheriff. “Oh, no. Why would they shoot at me? Prob’ly got a drink or two too many and wanted to see if a six-shooter would go off.”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff was not satisfied, but realized that he would never get Hashknife to admit anything he did not want to. He looked at the book, folded it up and frowned at Hashknife.
“I don’tsabeyou fellers,” he declared complainingly. “Last night they were yellin’ for yore blood and—maybe they are yet, for all I know—and you go around actin’ like somebody had handed yuh the keys to the town. Ain’tcha got a lick of sense?”
“Not a lick,” said Hashknife seriously. “When they passed around the gall we took so much that they passed us up on the brains. A feller can’t have everythin’, sheriff.”
The sheriff’s ears grew red. He knew that some one had told them what he had said about them. So he nodded in agreement, turned and went back to his office, wondering aloud what in —— Hashknife had taken the brand registry for. Then he remembered that they had talked about the JN outfit. He looked for it in the registry and found it belonged to a Jack Noonan. He threw the book aside and sprawled on a cot to finish out his interrupted siesta.
While the others accepted Hashknife’s explanation, Sleepy knew that Hashknife had sprawled on the sidewalk for a purpose. The tall cowboy grinned seriously over his cigaret, as he led Sleepy and Jack to the livery stable, where they got their horses.
“We’re goin’ to take a little ride,” explained Hashknife.
Jack made no comment. Something seemed to tell him to depend on this lanky disciple of the rangeland. Sleepy scowled for a while, but the scowl gave way to a knowing grin. He knew that Hashknife was inbued with an idea. Every inch of the tall cowboy bespoke the fact that he was riding for a purpose.
They went north for a short distance and then swung to the east, leaving the road and heading for Lo Lo River. And as they strung out in single file along on an old cattle trail, Hashknife lifted his voice in mournful song:
Old Bill was a pun-n-n-ncherAnd you’ll all agree-e-e-eThat a puncher’s a man of low mental-i-tee-e-e.Now Bill went a-ridin-n-n-n’,With a rope in his ha-a-and,And by accident ropes one of his neighbor’s brand.Poor Bill was astonishedHis error to fi-i-i-ind,And the cowboys all said, ‘Old Bill’s goin’ blind.’So to save him from blindness-s-s,They was kind—you’ll agree-e-e-e,They hung Old Bill up on a wha-a-ang-doo-o-dle tree-e-e.
Old Bill was a pun-n-n-ncherAnd you’ll all agree-e-e-eThat a puncher’s a man of low mental-i-tee-e-e.Now Bill went a-ridin-n-n-n’,With a rope in his ha-a-and,And by accident ropes one of his neighbor’s brand.Poor Bill was astonishedHis error to fi-i-i-ind,And the cowboys all said, ‘Old Bill’s goin’ blind.’So to save him from blindness-s-s,They was kind—you’ll agree-e-e-e,They hung Old Bill up on a wha-a-ang-doo-o-dle tree-e-e.
Old Bill was a pun-n-n-ncherAnd you’ll all agree-e-e-eThat a puncher’s a man of low mental-i-tee-e-e.
Old Bill was a pun-n-n-ncher
And you’ll all agree-e-e-e
That a puncher’s a man of low mental-i-tee-e-e.
Now Bill went a-ridin-n-n-n’,With a rope in his ha-a-and,And by accident ropes one of his neighbor’s brand.
Now Bill went a-ridin-n-n-n’,
With a rope in his ha-a-and,
And by accident ropes one of his neighbor’s brand.
Poor Bill was astonishedHis error to fi-i-i-ind,And the cowboys all said, ‘Old Bill’s goin’ blind.’
Poor Bill was astonished
His error to fi-i-i-ind,
And the cowboys all said, ‘Old Bill’s goin’ blind.’
So to save him from blindness-s-s,They was kind—you’ll agree-e-e-e,They hung Old Bill up on a wha-a-ang-doo-o-dle tree-e-e.
So to save him from blindness-s-s,
They was kind—you’ll agree-e-e-e,
They hung Old Bill up on a wha-a-ang-doo-o-dle tree-e-e.
“And that,” said Sleepy, “is probably different than even Caruso could have sung it.”
“Anyway,” said Hashknife seriously, “the sentiment is there. I may not sing very pretty, but I sure get rid of my song.”
“I was just wonderin’,” observed Jack, “just wonderin’ where you are headin’ for, Hartley.”
“I dunno,” confessed Hashknife. “I kinda wanted to get out to Turkey Track sidin’ without goin’ around by the road.”
“Yeah, yuh can do that, but we’ll probably have to swim the river.”
“Thassall right,” laughed Sleepy.
“This is Saturday.”
“We should have gone east from town,” said Jack. “Instead of comin’ out here, crossin’ the river at the bridge, we should have followed the railroad track. It wouldn’t be very easy travelin’, but we wouldn’t have to cross the river.”
“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife, “but everybody would have known where we was headin’. Yuh see, Hartwell, I like to fool folks. It’s a lot of fun, don’tcha know it? And it’s kept me and Sleepy from lookin’ up at the daisy roots.”
“Like when yuh fell down a while ago, eh?”
“Probably. I didn’t want to down either of them jiggers. Right now they’re worth more alive than dead, for my purpose. And they think I’m dead or badly hurt—which makes it much better. I dunno which one of ’em fired the shot. I heard the bullet hit the building about twenty feet ahead of me.”
They crossed Slow Elk Creek near its mouth and came to the river, where they swam their horses across. From there it was only a short distance to Turkey Track siding, where they dismounted, tied their horses to the corral fence and sat down to have a smoke.
To the north they could see the timbered curves of Deer Creek, to the north and west the wide sweep of the Lo Lo range. To the north and east was the narrow, timbered valley, through which came the railroad from Medicine Tree, and beyond. Just across the river from them, about a mile and a half away, was the Turkey Track ranch, on the west bank of Deer Creek.
Hashknife seemed very thoughtful, as he scanned the country. He squinted toward the hazy outline of the main divide, where the break of Kiopo Pass was barely visible, and at the narrow valley to the northeast.
“Did yuh live here before the railroad came, Hartwell?” he asked.
“Yeah,” nodded Jack. “It hasn’t been here over six years.”
“Uh-huh. Where did the cattlemen market their stock before they had the railroad?”
“Mostly in Medicine Tree. That was before the sheep got control of Sunland Basin. We used to take some big drives out of this valley.”
“Over Kiopo Pass?”
“Mostly. A few tried takin’ stock out through where the railroad goes now, but it was a pretty hard drive. The railroad had to blast their way in through solid rock and travel miles to gain a few hundred yards. Of course yuh could take stock out, but most of ’em would have their heels worn off before they hit Sunland. We’ve never been afraid of sheep comin’ in that way.”
“Any station or town between here and Medicine Tree?”
“Not until you get into Sunland Basin. Between here and there is a wilderness. Good grazin’ land though. But the snow piles up too deep in there for any one to use it, except in summer; and in the spring it catches the drainage from both sides and comes —— a-whoopin’ down Lo Lo.”
Hashknife squinted sidewise at Jack.
“You worryin’ about yore wife?”
“Well, my ——, wouldn’t you?”
Jack got to his feet and leaned against the corral.
“I s’pose I would, Jack. Let’s go over and strike the Turkey Track cook for somethin’ to eat.”
“Fine,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe we’ll see Curt and Spiers. I’d give a lot to see the look on their faces when they see you.”
“Well, don’t get so danged interested in their faces that yuh forget their hands. Them two sidewinders are liable to strike before they rattle.”
“And they’re not friends of mine,” added Jack.
“What kind of a whipporwill is this Allison?” asked Hashknife as they mounted and rode toward the river crossing.
“I’d hate to say,” replied Jack. “If somebody had asked me a week ago what I thought of Curt and Steil, I’d probably have said that they were as good as the average.”
“Naturally. They tell me that you’ve had quite a lot of —— handed to yuh, Jack. I never got the story direct, yuh know.”
“And you probably never will, Hartley. I’m not complainin’. I went into it with both eyes open, yuh know. Mebbe I was all wrong, I dunno. Dad is a hard man, and he tried to teach me to hate. Mother is just the opposite, so she taught the opposite.
“Lovin’ got me some happiness and a lot of pure ——, but it kept me from turnin’ killer, Hartley. I’m the only one who knows what the last—well, the last hundred years—meant to me. It does seem that long. I’ve stood insults that would make a cotton tail fight a grizzly bear. They’ve called me a yellow skunk—a sheep lover—and I never even reached for my gun.”
“How about yuh now, Jack?”
“Now?” Jack laughed harshly. “I’ve got my war paint on. It’s a showdown from now on. If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I was goin’ to start in on Curt and Steil. I haven’t forgotten the draw. There’s only one man in the country that can beat me, and that is Slim De Larimore.”
“He’s fast, is he?” asked Hashknife.
“Just like a flash. Wears his gun kinda in front of his thigh, carries his hand behind his holster, and his draw is just like lifting his empty hand. I’ve seen some gunmen, but he’s got ’em all beat.”
“Is he a good shot?”
“I don’t know; never seen him shoot. Very likely is though.”
Hashknife smiled seriously and rubbed his nose. It was a sure sign that he was pleased. Sleepy watched him and grinned.
They rode in at the Turkey Track and dismounted. There was no sign of life around the place, except the Chinese cook who answered their knock.
“Hyah, John,” grinned Hashknife pleasantly. “How’s chances for a little food?”
“I do’ no,” replied the Celestial. “Boss no heah.”
“Thassall right. You round up a little food for us.”
“Mm-m-m.”
John was not so sure. Then:
“You come in, eh? I make you li’l glub.”
They filed into the living room and sat down, while the Chinaman got busy with his fire. The Turkey Track living room was not an attractive place; it was more like a bunk house. There were three beds, badly tumbled, a few chairs, a littered table, a scattered lot of playing cards and a ragged carpet, plentifully littered with ashes and cigaret butts.
The Chinaman was busily rattling his utensils and singing in a weak, high-pitched voice. Hashknife stepped over to the door, leaned against the wall and watched him. Suddenly he leaned forward, squinting toward the stove, and spoke softly—
“What’s the matter, John?”
The Chinaman was putting some wood into the fire-box, but turned and looked at Hashknife.
“W’at yo’ say?” he asked, blandly.
“About that wood,” said Hashknife slowly. “Yuh can’t burn green wood, John.”
“Nosabe.”
The Chinaman looked at the stick of green cottonwood in his hand.
“Too green,” said Hashknife. “Use dry wood.”
“Nosabe.”
The Chinaman started to put the green wood into the stove, but Hashknife strode across to him, took the stick off the fire and tossed it out through the open door. Then he picked out some dry wood from the box beside the stove and stuffed it into the fire-box.
“That burns fine,” smiled Hashknife.
The Chinaman’s face did not change expression, and he went back to his pots and pans. Jack and Sleepy had come to the doorway, watching Hashknife, who walked back into the living room with them.
“What was the idea?” queried Sleepy in a whisper.
Hashknife grinned seriously.
“That Chink knows that green wood don’t make a good fire.”
“Wanted smoke, eh?”
“That’s the way it struck me.”
“Wanted to send up a signal?” asked Jack.
“Might be. Yuh never can tell.”
Hashknife walked back to the doorway and watched the Chinaman finish the cooking of the meal. He did not trust the cook. They ate the meal, but kept one eye on the Chinaman. Hashknife tried to draw him into conversation, but the Chinaman hid behind his “Nosabe.”
When they had finished, Hashknife walked over to the stove, filled the fire-box with pitch-pine wood and went out into the yard, where he picked up the green stick. The Chinaman watched him put it into the stove, shut the fire-box door and sit down again.
“Whasamalla you?” asked the Chinaman. “Yo’ say no can do——”
“Can do now,” grinned Hashknife. “Plenty good smoke, eh?”
“Nosabe.”
The Chinaman shook his head violently.
“Nobody asked yuh to,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet.
The three cowboys went outside, mounted their horses and rode away. A heavy smoke was curling up from the stove pipe, a smoke that would be visible for a long way. Hashknife chuckled joyfully.
“Slim De Larimore will probably see that smoke, and come a-whoopin’. It’s probably the signal that will bring ’em in from the dead-line, in case any strangers are around the ranch, and the Chink will get merry —— from his boss. So we’ll just step off a piece and watch the effects.”
As soon as they were well out of sight from the ranch, they rode into a brushy coulée, dismounted and sneaked to the crest, where they could get almost a bird’s-eye view of the ranch house. The heavy smoke no longer rolled from the stove pipe, evidence that the Chinaman had removed the green fuel.
It was about half an hour later when two riders approached the ranch from the east. They rode boldly up to the house and dismounted.
“I’m bettin’ that the smoke signal didn’t bring them in,” said Hashknife, but added, “unless the signal means that everythin’ is all right. They busted right in, didn’t they? Recognize the horses, Jack?”
“Not at this distance, Hartley. One of ’em is a light buckskin and the other is a rangy-lookin’ gray. They don’t belong to the Turkey Track, that’s a cinch. Honey Wier rides a gray, but that man wasn’t Honey Wier. And I don’t know of anybody in Lo Lo that rides a light buckskin. There they come out again.”
The two men had left the house and came out to their horses. The Chinaman was with them, and the three grouped together for several minutes before the two mounted and rode away. It looked as if they were going to ride past, which would give the three cowboys a chance to see who they were, but they turned and rode southwest, going down through a brushy swale and disappearing into the heavy cover.
“What’s down that way?” asked Hashknife.
Jack squinted thoughtfully for a moment, “Well, I dunno. There ain’t nothin’ much. Looks like they were heading for the forks of Slow Elk and the river. Maybe they’re goin’ to Totem City. Just above where we crossed Slow Elk, there’s an old shack and a corral. Anyway, there used to be. An old coyote hunter used it a couple years ago.”
“An old shack, eh?”
“Yeah. Probably fallen down by this time. It’s down there in a coulée, kinda out of the way, if it ain’t fallen down.”
“We’ll take a look at her,” said Hashknife, starting back to the horses. “In this game yuh can’t afford to overlook anythin’.”
They mounted and followed Jack down through the timbered draw, which opened on to brushy hillsides.
“Take it easy,” advised Hashknife. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
“What do you expect to find down there?” asked Jack.
“Yuh never can tell, pardner. Just lead us in the slickest way.”
It was about two miles from where they had mounted to where Jack led them over the crest of a broken ridge and pointed toward the brushy bottom below them.
“Yuh can see the top of the old shack, Hartley.”
“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife quickly. “Get down!”
They slid out of their saddles and forced the horses to move further back. Through the screen of trees they could see part of the old corral, where two men were working with horses. It was impossible to see just what was going on, but a few minutes later two men rode down the coulée, mounted on a black and bay horse.
The two men did not seem in any hurry; neither did they act in a suspicious manner.
“Recognize them horses?” asked Hashknife.
“Nope,” Jack shook his head. “Lots of bays and blacks in this country. I wonder if it’s the same two men.”
“I think it is, Jack. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.”
They mounted and rode down at the rear of the shack, where they slid to the ground and approached the shack. In the little corral stood a light buckskin and a gray horse sweat-stained, leg-weary. The door of the shack was unlocked and there was no one inside.
Of furnishings there were none; but on the floor were nine bed rolls, spread, just as they had been when nine men got out of bed and left them. Hashknife grinned at the amazement in Jack’s face, and led them outside. They went to the corral and looked at the two horses. On the right shoulder of each animal was the mark of the JN outfit.
“More of the Jack Noonan stock, eh?” said Sleepy curiously.
“Yeah.” Hashknife nodded seriously. “Been ridden to a frazzle, too. Well, this is worth findin’, gents.”
“But what does it all mean?” queried Jack. “I don’tsabeit”
“C’mon,” ordered Hashknife, heading back to the horses. “We don’t want to be spotted here in this coulée.”
They rode back to higher ground, where they drew rein and scanned the country. Not a living thing moved in that wide expanse of rangeland.
“Have you any idea what it means?” asked Jack.
“Haven’t you?”
Hashknife seemed surprised.
“Not much, Hartley.”
“Let me ask you an easy question, Jack. In all our travels today—and we’ve covered a lot of territory—how many head of cattle have you seen?”
Jack looked at Hashknife and his eyes swept the hills in a bewildered sort of way.
“Why, I—by golly, I don’t remember that we seen any. Say, that’s funny! I wondered what was wrong.”
“I didn’t see any either,” added Sleepy.
“Neither did I,” said Hashknife, mimicking Sleepy. “Because there ain’t any to be seen.”
“But where in —— have they gone?” demanded Jack.
“Mebbe they’ve gone where the woodbine twineth and the cuckoo calleth for its mate. But they haven’t!” Hashknife’s jaw snapped shut. “Lo Lo Valley has been buncoed, Jack. While every cattleman and cowpuncher have cooled their heels on a dead-line against sheep, rustlers have cleaned out their cattle.”
“My ——!” exploded Jack. “Do you think so, Hartley?”
“I know so. Me and Sleepy cut their trail the night we came here, and they killed a horse under me. We’ve seen ’em since then. It looks like this Jack Noonan has brought his gang from Sunland Basin over here to take advantage of the sheep invasions, and by grab, he’s sure makin’ a cleanup.”
“What’ll we do?” asked Jack helplessly. “There’s a gang of ’em to contend with.”
“And they know danged well that they won’t dare to desert the dead-line,” said Hashknife. “Jack, this bunch of cow thieves have got Lo Lo Valley by the neck.”
“By ——, they sure have!”
“But, of course—” Hashknife grinned over his cigaret—“it ain’t as though us three were losin’ anythin’. Me and Sleepy ain’t got no interests here, and they’ve handed you so much —— that they can’t expect you to break yore neck to help ’em out. So—” Hashknife scratched a match and puffed on his cigaret—“So we’ll just step aside and let ’em find it out to their sorrow.
“They’ve kinda handed me and Sleepy the worst of it, too. We’ve been accused of all kinds of things since we showed up here. They even wanted to hang us, I reckon. And, takin’ it all in all, we don’t owe ’em anythin’—none of us, eh, Jack?”
Jack squinted thoughtfully and looked away across the hills. Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged a quick glance and waited for Jack to speak. Finally he turned to Hashknife.
“I suppose yo’re right,” he said slowly. “They’ve kinda given you two the worst of it, and I know how you feel about it. You ain’t got no interests here—nothin’ to care about—so it’s all right. But with me—” Jack looked away for a moment, and back at them, with a wistful, apologetic smile—“Yuh see, I was raised here, and these are my people.”
Just that and nothing more. He had explained in a few words. Hashknife nodded slowly, a serious expression in his gray eyes. Then he suddenly held out his hand to Jack.
“You —— kid!” he said seriously as they shook hands.
“You don’t blame me, do yuh?” asked Jack wonderingly.
“Blame yuh?” Hashknife laughed, joyfully. “I just been wonderin’ if you was worth helpin’, Hartwell—and yuh are. Let’s go!”