Marsh Hartwell leaned against a rear wheel of the chuck wagon in Six Mile gulch and looked moodily at Honey Wier and Chet Spiers, who were seated on the ground, cutting sticks of dynamite into proper lengths for their purpose.
Grouped around them were old Sam Hodges, Cliff Vane, Frank Hall and Bill Brownlee, each man with a cup of coffee in his hand. The chuck wagon had been shoved into the brush, until only the rear end was visible, and the little clearing in which it stood was so well masked by brush that it would not be visible from fifty yards away on any side.
“How about that for a bomb?” asked Honey Wier, holding up a bundle of short pieces of dynamite, from which a five-inch fuse projected. “That ought to make a mutton stew, eh?”
“That’s the ticket,” nodded Vane. “We’ll give every man a load of ’em, and we’ll blow all the —— sheep back into Sunland in one night. How do you like the idea, Marsh?”
Marsh Hartwell lifted his head,
“I don’t like it, Cliff. Perhaps it’s the only thing to do, but I don’t like the idea.”
“Sure it’s the only thing to do,” insisted Vane. “We can’t spend the rest of our lives around here, waitin’ for Eph King to start ahead. My idea is to start an offensive. With dynamite, we can bust up the whole works, scatter the sheep—mebbe capture King again. Anyway, we’ll make ’em so sick of Lo Lo Valley that they’ll be willin’ to get out with a whole skin.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed old Sam slowly. “A lot of fool cowpunchers will probably get killed with their own bombs, too.”
“The idea is to bust straight through to the sheep camp, ain’t it?” asked Frank Hall.
“That’s it,” replied Vane. “We’ll wreck everythin’ between here and there, too. Make up all our bombs here and distribute ’em all along the line. We’ll draw Slim and his men over to this side of Slow Elk, and that’ll give us about twenty men to throw dynamite. Oh, we’ll show Eph King the way back to Sunland, y’betcha.”
“Well, I wish you’d help make bombs and not brag so —— much,” complained Honey Wier. “Me and Chet can’t make ’em all.”
“Don’t bite the caps into the fuse,” advised Hodges. “Pinch ’em in with the point of your knife, Honey.”
“Aw, that’s too slow. I ain’t never bit too short on one yet.”
“And yuh never will—except just once. Yo’re only allowed one mistake, cowboy.”
“And that’s the truth,” nodded Chet. “I knowed a feller that was bitin’ caps on to fuses, and he caught the end of one between his back teeth.”
“Hurt him much?” queried Honey.
“Hurt him? It drove his legs into hard ground up to his knees and his hat didn’t come down until the next day.”
“Loan me yore knife,” said Honey seriously. “I’m scared I might git my arches busted down.”
A horseman was coming in through the narrow trail, and they waited for him to come into the clearing. It was Abe Allison. He dismounted and helped himself to some coffee.
“Glad yuh showed up, Abe,” said Vane. “Saves us a trip down to yore end of the line.”
“Yeah?” Allison blew on the hot coffee. “What for?”
“To tell Slim what we’re goin’ to do, and have him bring all you fellers up this side of Slow Elk. Tonight we’re goin’ to bust our way through the sheep and settle everythin’.”
“How?”
“Here’s how,” laughed Honey Wier, holding up a bomb. “We’re goin’ to shake the old hills, Abie.”
“Dynamite?”
“Y’betcha,” replied Vane.
Abe shook his head nervously.
“I’m scared of that stuff. Yuh never can tell what she’s goin’ to do. It ain’t noways reliable, I tell yuh.”
“Aw, ——, it won’t hurt yuh,” said Honey Wier, carefully poking the point of his knife through the copper detonator to secure it to the fuse. “All yuh got to do is to touch off the fuse, wait a second or two, to see that she’s fizzin’ properly, and then heave it as far as yuh can toward the sheep.”
“And what’ll them sheepherders be doin’ all this time?”
“Shootin’ at yuh, of course,” laughed Chet. “But they can’t shoot straight in the dark.”
“Prob’ly kill a few of us,” observed Honey sadly. “But, as has been wisely said: There is no diligence without great labor. I read that in my copy book when I went to school. I dunno what in —— diligence is, do you, Chet?”
“Killin’ sheepherders. Diligence is a Latin sayin’. D-i-l is the same as ‘kill’;sabe? I-g-e-n-c-e is what the Lats used to call a shepherd. I used to talk it kinda good, but I’ve forgot a lot of it.”
“You used to live with ’em didn’t yuh, Chet?” asked Vane.
“Yeah,” nodded Chet seriously. “I’m a blood brother of that tribe. Say, this dynamite is gettin’ sticky.”
“That’s the nitroglycerin thawin’ out,” said Brownlee. “I dare either of you fellers to clap yore hands.”
“Yeah, and I’m goin’ to get out of here,” Allison mounted his horse. “Shall I tell Slim, Marsh?”
“Yeah, yuh can tell him what we’re goin’ to do. Mebbe it would be better for him to show up here about nine o’clock tonight. We won’t take a very wide swath the first time. It might be that we’ll have to attack more than once.”
“All right.”
Allison glanced apprehensively at the pile of fused bombs beside Honey Wier, swung his horse around and rode quickly away.
“By golly, I’d like to throw one behind him in the brush,” grinned Honey. “He’d die of fright. I’ll betcha Abie Allison ain’t goin’ to be worth a lot to us. How danged many of these things will we need?”
“Ought to have about ten for each man,” said Vane.
“Yeah?” Honey counted what they had already made. There were ten. “All right, gents, I’ve made mine, so step up and help yourself.”
“Aw, you’re doin’ fine, Honey,” applauded Vane. “Keep right on. I never did see better bunches of dynamite in my life. I was just sayin’ to myself, ‘Honey Wier sure does sabe how to make up them bombs.’”
“You talk to yourself quite a lot, I know that,” grinned Honey. “You keep it up for a while, and you’ll prob’ly go into the sheep business yourself, Cliff.”
“Here comes somebody else,” grunted Brownlee, whose ears had caught the sound of approaching horsemen. “Several of ’em, too.”
The crowd around the chuck wagon moved apart and watched the trail, where Hashknife, Sleepy and Jack were coming into view. No one spoke to them, as they dismounted, but every one of the cattlemen’s faces betrayed their astonishment. Jack walked around to his father and glanced quickly at the circle of wondering faces.
“You can let yore guns alone,” said Jack slowly. “We’re not lookin’ for trouble —we’re bringin’ yuh some.”
“Bringin’ us some?” Marsh Hartwell spoke wonderingly.
“Yeah—bringin’ yuh some,” said Jack.
“Is it about Molly?”
Jack shook his head quickly,
“I don’t know where she is.”
He turned to Hashknife.
“You tell ’em about it, Hartley; it’s yore story, anyway.”
“It ain’t much to tell,” said Hashknife, “and only amounts to just this: While all you cattlemen have been settin’ here on the dead-line, waiting for the sheep to try and cross, somebody has been rustlin’ every danged head of cattle in this end of Lo Lo Valley, thassall.”
“What!”
Cliff Vane came toward Hashknife, his mouth half-open, a foolish expression on his face.
“How do you know this?” demanded Marsh Hartwell harshly.
The men crowded closer, swearing softly, asking for proof.
“Oh, there’s proof enough,” said Jack.
“You can ride the hills all day between here and Totem City and never see a head of stock. I tell you Hartley is right. We found where the rustlers live. It’s in that old shack down in the coulée near the mouth of Slow Elk. There’s nine bed rolls in that old shack.”
“Good ——!” exploded Marsh Hartwell.
“That’s why the sheep haven’t moved! Boys, it’s a game to loot Lo Lo Valley. Eph King and his gang forced us to guard the dead-line, while he stole all our cattle. The dirty thief!”
“Nine of ’em in that shack, eh?” gritted Vane. “Well, we’ll just go down there and shoot —— out of ’em, eh? C’mon, boys.”
“Wait a minute,” said Marsh. “They won’t be there now.”
He turned to Hashknife, squinting at the serious-faced cowboy, as if seeking to read his thoughts. Then,
“Hartley, yo’re on the square about this?”
Hashknife’s eyes narrowed, but his lips twisted slightly in a smile, as he said:
“Hartwell, I’m tellin’ you my opinion. I might be wrong, but I’m not lyin’.”
“Where do you come in on the deal?” asked Cliff Vane.
Hashknife looked at Vane, a look of contempt that he made no effort to conceal, as he said:
“Pardner, you’ve lived here so long, seein’ the same things, thinkin’ the same thoughts, that you’ve become so —— narrow that yore squinty little brain can’t conceive of anybody doin’ humanity a good turn, unless there’s somethin’ in it, some chance to feather yore own nest.”
Vane blinked angrily. Honey Wier guffawed loudly and slapped Chet so hard on the shoulder that the foreman of the Arrow almost fell down.
“What do yuh mean by them remarks?” demanded Vane.
“Ne’mind,” said Honey. “He wouldn’t get it, unless yuh wrote it out on paper, Hartley.
“Who the —— are yuh hittin’ around?” demanded Chet. “My ——, you ain’t got no feelin’s a-tall, have yuh, Honey? Some day I’m goin’ to pack a club for you.”
“I’ll use it on yuh,” nodded Honey, laughing.
“Aw, quit foolin’!” snorted Vane. “We’ve got to decide —— quick on what to do about this. Where are these cattle, Hartley?”
“I don’t know,” replied Hashknife. “Perhaps they are on their way into Sunland Basin.”
“Through the railroad route?” queried Chet.
“They haven’t gone over Kiopo Pass,” said Jack.
Marsh Hartwell swore feelingly,
“We might have known that Eph King was up to some dirty work. There has been a reason for his delay in tryin’ to put sheep below the dead-line.”
“We’re between the —— and the deep, blue sea,” said old Sam Hodges. “King knew he had us cinched. Any time we go chasin’ after our cows he’ll put the sheep across. And I’m bettin’ that he’ll know when we start after the rustlers.”
“Yeah?” Vane drawled his question and looked meaningly at Hashknife and Sleepy. “I’ll bet he will, too, Sam. Mebbe he’s gettin’ tired, waitin’ for us to find it out.”
Hashknife got Vane’s meaning. He knew that the others got it, too. They shifted uneasily. Hashknife grinned at Vane and shook his head sadly.
“Pardner, you’ve got a thin soul. Somebody hinted that me and my friend were employed by Eph King, and you accepted it as the truth. Yore brain can’t hold more than one idea at a time, so I’m not goin’ to make yuh feverish by provin’ anythin’.”
“Don’t bother with him, Hartley,” advised Jack, and then to his father, “Hartley is tellin’ the truth. I’d stake my life that he is not workin’ for Eph King.”
“You ought to know,” growled Vane.
“Yeah, I ought to know!” Jack whirled angrily on Vane. “I do know. Now, —— yuh, put that in yore pipe and smoke it!”
Marsh Hartwell stepped in between them, shoving Jack back.
“This is not the time to fight each other,” he said calmly. “I believe that Hartley is doin’ this for our good.”
“Let him prove it, and I’ll apologize to him,” said Vane sulkily.
“I don’t want an apology from you,” smiled Hashknife. “Keep ’em to use on yourself; you need ’em.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” howled Honey Wier. “Better’n a circus!”
Cliff Vane glared at Hashknife, but said nothing more. Marsh Hartwell turned to the other cattlemen,
“Boys, if this tale is true, and I reckon it is, we’re up against a stiff proposition. The rustlers have likely shoved a lot of our stock half way to Medicine Tree by this time, and they know that we don’t dare desert this dead-line.
“None of us have a title to enough of this range to stop the sheep from occupying it, except by force. We can’t fence against ’em. Now it’s just a question of two evils —sheep or the loss of our cattle. There’s at least nine of the rustlers. If we even match numbers with ’em, it’ll weaken our line badly. Now, what’s to be done?”
The cattlemen shook their heads. Old Sam Hodges dug savagely into the dirt with his cane, and turned to the soberfaced group.
“Boys,” he said slowly, “we’ve mistrusted Hartley and Stevens, and we’ve done our darndest to mistreat ’em. Right now some of yuh still think they’re crooked. Yeah, yuh do. But just to show yuh how I feel about it, I’m suggestin’ that we ask Hartley what to do about this proposition—and foller his idea.”
“I’ll tell yuh how I ——” began Vane, but Honey Wier interrupted him with,
“Oh, you be ——ed! We know how you stand, Cliff.”
“I’m satisfied to do that,” said Marsh Hartwell slowly.
“Same here,” laughed Hall. “That skinny cowpuncher don’t look crooked to me. Hop to it, long feller.”
Hashknife grinned and hitched up his belt,
“Yo’re askin’ me to do somethin’, gents. I never asked for a chance to untangle yore hay-wire situation. Mebbe I ain’t got no better idea than you have, but, if yo’re willin’ to trust me, I’ll do the best I can.”
“How soon do yuh start, and can I go along?” queried Honey Wier. “I’m tired as —— of makin’ dynamite bombs.”
“Dynamite bombs?” said Hashknife.
“We’re goin’ to attack the sheep tonight,” explained Hall. “And every man will carry an armload of dynamite.”
“Oh, I see,” muttered Hashknife. “Well, yuh may not have to do anythin’ like that. Have all the men got their bombs ready?”
“Yo’re danged right they ain’t,” laughed Honey, “and if they wait for me to make ’em up, they never will have.”
“We’re all goin’ to meet here about nine o’clock tonight and get ready for the attack,” said Marsh Hartwell. “Perhaps it would be best to smash the sheep pretty badly and then go after the rustlers. While the sheepmen are recovering from the battle, they’re not liable to try and drive their sheep.”
“No, that ain’t the idea,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ lately, and the success of my idea hinges on one thing. I can’t tell yuh what it is now, and it may look to you like I’m crooked, but I’m takin’ that chance.
“Go right ahead with yore dynamite idea. If I’m wrong, I’ll throw a few hunks of it myself, but don’t throw any until yuh hear from me. C’mon, Sleepy.”
They climbed on to their horses, while the cattlemen watched them, wondering where they were going, what they were going to do. But they asked no questions. Vane grumbled profanely, but turned back to the coffee pot, while Hashknife and Sleepy rode out through the brushy trail, swung straight north and rode across the dead-line, heading toward Eph King’s sheep camp.
No one challenged them. If any of the sheepherders saw them they kept out of sight, knowing that two men would be taken care of by those at the rear.
Bill Steen and Eph King were just riding into camp as the two cowboys topped the hill above them. There were at least ten other men there, eating a meal, who deserted their food at sight of the two cowboys; but at a sign from Steen they went back and sat down again.
Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted, shaking hands with Steen, who introduced them to King.
“We’ve met before, but not socially,” smiled King. “Bill was tellin’ me that you were up here to see him. I had an idea that you two might be responsible for me bein’ in Totem City jail, but Jack didn’t think so, and Bill wanted to make me a big bet that I was mistaken.”
Hashknife grinned and shook his head,
“I never put a man in jail, unless he deserved it, King.”
“Then yuh don’t think I deserve it, Hartley?”
“I didn’t think so. Right now I don’t know what to think. Either you ought to be hung—or——”
“Or what?”
King looked curiously at Hashknife. The sheepmen heard what Hashknife said, and one of them eased himself into a position whereby he could draw a gun. The others looked at each other, and eating ceased.
“What did yuh mean by that, Hashknife?” asked Steen.
“C’mere.”
Hashknife led them away from the diners. Once out of earshot, he squatted on his heels and began rolling a cigaret. Steen sat down against a boulder and accepted a smoke, while Sleepy stretched out full length and yawned wearily. King did not sit down.
“All right, Hashknife,” said Steen. “Tell us what it’s all about.”
“Yeah, I’m goin’ to do that, Bill. I came all the way up here to tell yuh; but before I tell yuh all about it, I’d like to have yuh tell me why yuh haven’t made any attempt to break through. You’ve been here too long. There’s a reason why, Bill; and I want to know what it is.”
“Of what interest is that to you?” asked King.
“A whole lot,” said Hashknife quickly. “And by givin’ me that information, I can probably save yore sheep, mebbe a lot of lives, and I can put the deadwood on the guilty men.”
“Save my sheep?” King smiled. “Save ’em from what?”
“Nobody answered my question,” reminded Hashknife.
“What if they don’t?”
“Then we’ll have to ride away from here, thinkin’ that you are the lowest coyote alive, Eph King.”
King’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Yo’re in my camp, Hartley. Maybe you won’t ride away.”
“Now wait a minute,” begged Steen. “Don’t anybody go off half-cocked.” He looked up at King. “I know Hartley, Eph. He ain’t the kind to say a thing like that without a good reason, and we’ve got to get this thing right.”
“All right,” growled King grudgingly.
“Thank yuh, Bill,” said Hashknife. “Now tell me why yuh didn’t try to force the sheep through.”
“Because it would be suicide, Hashknife. The plans went wrong. You know as well as I do that we can’t get through.”
“Thasso?” Hashknife smiled thoughtfully. “And yo’re waitin’ until somebody finds the hole for yuh to crawl through, eh?”
Steen and King exchanged glances.
“Yuh might figure it like that,” said Steen. “There’s no use in sacrificin’ thousands of sheep and a lot of men.”
“That’s true,” nodded Hashknife. “Somebody ruined yore scheme, did they?”
Neither of the sheepmen denied it. Hashknife turned to King.
“Did you know that Jack Hartwell’s wife has been missin’ since yesterday afternoon?”
“Missin’?” King stared at Hashknife. “You mean that somethin’ has happened to her?”
Hashknife described the condition of the house, and of finding the dying man.
“That was Preston!” exclaimed Steen. “By ——, that’s what happened to him. What did he say, Hashknife?”
“He said that Ed shot him, and that Ed took the woman.”
“Ed who?” asked King anxiously. “Who is Ed?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“We don’t know, King. There ain’t a cowman in Lo Lo named Ed. Jack hasn’t the slightest idea where she is.”
King straightened up, his jaw shut tight, his big hands clenched at his sides.
“By ——, I’ll find her,” he said painfully. “She’s had all the —— I’ll ever let her have in this ——ed valley. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to come down here and sheep ’em out. Just to show ’em, that’s all.”
“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife slowly. “While you and your sheep have been holding the attention of the cattlemen, a bunch of rustlers have been quietly liftin’ every head of stock in Lo Lo Valley. And yo’re goin’ to be blamed for it all, King.”
“Wait a minute,” breathed King, squatting down on his heels. “Say that again, Hartley, will yuh? Rustlers cleanin’ out the——”
“That’s what I said, King. Do you know the JN outfit?”
“Jack Noonan? Sure I know him.”
“Their horses carry his brand.”
King slowly turned his head and looked at Steen, who was staring at him.
“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife. “You could ’a’ shoved yore sheep through that line any old time yuh wanted to. There ain’t over twenty men on that line at any time.”
Steen squinted at Hashknife and spat thoughtfully.
“Is that right, Hashknife?”
“Would I lie to you, Bill?”
“No, by ——, I don’t think you would.”
“And so they think I’m a thief, do they?” gritted King. “They branded me a thief years ago; so it’s easy for them to slap on the old brand again. They think that I’m holdin’ ’em on this dead-line while my men sneak in behind ’em and take their —— cows. By ——, that’s a good idea, too good for me to ever think of doin’.”
Steen got to his feet and threw away his cigaret.
“I can see the whole —— thing, Eph,” he declared. “I’ve been afraid that somethin’ was wrong.”
He turned to Hashknife.
“You know where to find these rustlers?”
“I know where their bed rolls were today.”
“Good!”
“All right, Bill,” said King firmly. “I reckon you’re right. Down there in Lo Lo Valley the women have used my name to scare their kids, and they’ve mistreated my little girl.”
He turned away and started down across the hills, his lips shut tightly. Then:
“I don’t owe ’em anythin’, but by ——, I’m not goin’ to have anybody stealin’ in my name—makin’ me blacker than I am. Tell the boys to get their horses, Bill. We’re goin’ across that dead-line to help the people that hate us.” He turned to Hashknife, a whimsical sort of smile on his big face. “I reckon this kinda fits in with that idea of turnin’ the other cheek, Hartley.”
“Sometimes it helps, King,” said Hashknife. “I’ve never lost much by helpin’ an enemy.”
“I never did help one,” said King slowly. “Marsh Hartwell is the only real enemy I ever had. We were friends once, me and Marsh. But I reckon we both wanted to be the big man of Lo Lo Valley, and one of us had to quit.
“The country was new then, Hartley, and we were a rough gang. There wasn’t any law and order, and the man with the longest rope got the biggest herd. Mebbe—” He smiled softly— “my rope was longer than Marsh’s and he got jealous. Anyway, I went out with the brand of thief. Bill is gettin’ the boys together, so we better get ready.”
They turned and walked back to the camp, where men were shoving rifles into their scabbards and saddling horses, which they were bringing out of the brushy cañon above the camp. And there was a grin of anticipation on the faces of these sheepmen. They were tired of inaction. King glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy’s saddles, and called Steen’s attention to the fact that neither of them carried a rifle.
Steen handed each of them a rifle and a belt filled with cartridges.
“Noonan travels with a tough gang,” he told them. “Boomer Bates was one of his men. I can see the whole plot now. King didn’t want to believe it, but he does now. C’mon.”
They mounted and went down across the brushy hills, fourteen strong, well-mounted, heavily armed, looking for trouble.
And about the time that the fourteen men rode away from the sheep camp, Marsh Hartwell and his son rode away from the chuck wagon in Six Mile gulch. The cattlemen had decided to wait until nine o’clock before starting their offensive, taking a chance that Hashknife’s scheme, whatever it might be, would work out.
About a mile south of the camp they met the sheriff and Sunshine, who were seeking the latest news. They got it. Sudden rubbed his nose until it looked like an over-ripe cherry.
“By ——, I’ve been expectin’ this!” declared Sunshine.
“You never expected nothin’,” snorted the sheriff. “Don’t say that yuh have, ’cause yuh haven’t.”
“You don’t know what’s inside my head,” persisted Sunshine.
“The —— I don’t! Just like I know what’s in the hole of a doughnut. Don’t argue with me about anythin’, Sunshine. Lemme think. By grab, this is serious, don’tcha know it? Whole bunch of rustlers, eh? In that old shack down there—hm-m-m! Well,” bravely, “there’s just one thing to do, and that’s to go and heave some lead at ’em.”
“Don’t do it,” advised Marsh quickly. “That would chase ’em away, don’tcha see, Sudden? We’ve got to nail that whole gang at once; put enough men down there to stop every one of ’em, sabe?”
“And let Eph King send his sheep across, eh?”
“We got to take that chance, Sudden.”
“And Eph King knows it, I’ll bet.”
“You’ll probably win.”
“Uh-huh. Say, Marsh, let’s take a little sashay down that way. We can kinda act like we wasn’t goin’ nowhere. Them jiggers are liable to pick up their beds and pull out.”
“Let’s do that,” suggested Jack. “Let’s do somethin’ besides talk. My ——, I can’t stand it much longer.”
“You ain’t heard nothin’ from your wife?” Thus Sunshine.
Jack shook his head sadly.
“I’m afraid—now. With that bunch of rustlers around here, it’s hard to tell what has happened to her. That sun is almost down—and she’s been gone since yesterday. C’mon.”
They rode down through the hills, swinging to the east of the Arrow ranch, taking a course almost directly between the Arrow and Jack’s place. There were no cattle in sight. Ordinarily the hills were filled with Arrow, Turkey Track and Circle V cattle in that part of the range, but there were none of any brand now.
Suddenly the sheriff drew rein and pointed excitedly. About a mile away a group of horsemen were riding swiftly in the direction of the rustler’s shack. It was impossible to tell who they were or how many men were in the crowd, but they were making good time, and going almost away from the sheriff’s crowd.
“There they go!” blurted Sunshine. “And they’re goin’ like ——! I’ll betcha they’re wise to somethin’ and are beatin’ it for the shack to get their stuff.”
“It sure looks like it,” agreed the sheriff nervously. “We’re not exactly equipped for battle, but we’ll give ’em a run for their money. Hit the grit, boys!”
Only the sheriff and Sunshine had rifles, but Marsh and Jack gave no heed to this, as they sent their horses into a swift run down through the hills. The brush whipped into their faces and tore at their clothes, but they stood up in their stirrups and prayed that their horses would keep their feet over the rough going.
Then came thespang!of a distant rifle shot, echoing through the hills. It was followed by a scattering volley.
“Somebody has jumped ’em!” yelled the sheriff. “Ride ’em high and keep goin’!”
But what the sheriff had thought was the rustler’s gang was Hashknife’s crew from the sheep camp. He had led them straight through the dead-line unchallenged, much to the wonderment of Eph King. No one even questioned their right to pass, and Hashknife knew that the word had not been passed to let them through, because no one knew that he was going to bring a crowd back across the line.
Hashknife had taken them east from the sheep camp until almost due north from the Turkey Track ranch, and then had twisted to the southwest, crossing Slow Elk Creek and turning south.
Hashknife, King and Steen had talked over what they were going to do, and decided to sweep down on the shack, kill or capture all the rustlers in sight and then ambush the rest when they came. It was a good scheme, and might have worked fine, except for the fact that two men were at the corral and saw them top the crest of the coulée.
One of these men had a rifle in his hand and he proceeded to take a snapshot at them before running back toward the shack. The sheepmen jerked to a stop and fired a scattering volley at the two running men, which did nothing more than kick up the dust or tear splinters off the side of the shack.
Then they dismounted, scattered in the brush and started to surround the shack, when several riders broke from cover farther down the coulée and rode away at breakneck speed. They were evidently on their way to the shack when the first shot was fired. Hashknife took a long-range shot at them, but they were traveling fast through the brush and his bullet did not stop any of them.
Those in the shack were not at all idle. They were all armed with rifles, and they were making things warm for the sheepmen. Hashknife and Sleepy crawled to a spot where they could shoot at a window, and proceeded to flip the old curtain with such regularity that the rustlers quit using that window as a loophole.
“This here is worth waitin’ for,” grinned Sleepy. “I wish I had my old .45-70, Hashknife. This here .30-30 is all very fine, but them bullets mushroom too quick. They don’t bore through them old weathered boards. It’s like throwin’ rocks down there.”
Wham!
A bullet struck just in front of Sleepy, filling his eyes with dirt. He rolled over, clawing at his face, trying to blink the gravel out of his eyes.
“Somebody throwed the rock back at yuh, didn’t they?” asked Hashknife humorously. “You forget that there’s desperate men in that shack, cowboy.”
A man ran out of the shack and headed for the corral, where several horses were tied. Twice he swerved, when bullets whizzed past his ears, but before he could reach the horses he lunged sidewise and went flat on his face.
“Must be gettin’ hot inside the shack,” observed Hashknife, as he stuffed some cartridges into the loading gate of his rifle.
“I feel sorry for them poor —— down there.”
Sleepy squinted through his tears and spat painfully.
“Go ahead and feel sorry for ’em, if yuh want to, Hashknife. And if yuh happen to have any sorrow left, pass it around to one whose vision is filled with dancin’ stars. Talk about spots in front of yore eyes!”
Hashknife turned his head and looked back up the slope. Eph King was running toward his horse, and as Hashknife watched him he climbed into his saddle and spurred into a gallop. Hashknife squinted wonderingly. King was traveling rapidly now, and Hashknife watched him crossing the ridge behind them.
Four other riders had come into sight, riding in from the west, and traveling fast, as if attempting to cut in ahead of King. One of them fired a shot, and it appeared to Hashknife as if King almost fell off his horse.
“Stick here and keep shootin’,” ordered Hashknife, backing out through the brush. “I’ve got to make a call.”
Sleepy blinked through his tears at Hashknife, who was running low toward his horse. Sleepy wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his hand and settled down again.
“I’ll stick here,” he said aloud. “But I won’t guarantee to do any shootin’. That danged cow thief down there almost rocked me to sleep.”
Hashknife reached his horse, mounted on the run and spurred away in the direction taken by King. He topped the rise, riding high in his saddle, but could see nothing either of the pursued or the pursuers. He remembered that there had been several riders below the old shack when the battle started, and he wondered if they had circled to attack them from the rear.
But Hashknife did not waste much time in speculation. As fast as his horse could run they went across that broken land of sage and greasewood, heading northeast. He could not hear the shooting now. It was slightly uphill now and the horse was tiring fast, but Hashknife showed no mercy on his mount.
Off to the east, beyond the next ridge, several shots were fired, but Hashknife did not alter his course. He tore his way up through the brush and swung on to the old road. He drew rein long enough to scan the country, but there was nothing in sight. Then he spurred on, heading toward the Turkey Track.
Again he heard the faraway snap of a shot; too far away to interest him now. At the same spot where he had watched the Turkey Track with Sleepy and Jack Hartwell, he dismounted and left his exhausted horse, head down in the greasewood thicket.
A cautious scrutiny of the Turkey Track ranch house showed him that there was no one in sight, so he circled to the left, keeping himself concealed, until he was almost at the rear of the place. Then he ran swiftly across the open space at the rear of the house and slid into the willows along Deer Creek. For several moments he remained quiet, watching the house. He had been forced to cross in the open, and there was a possibility of being seen.
Satisfied that no one had discovered him, he went swiftly down through the willows until he was at the corral. Just beyond was the big stable, and about a hundred feet beyond was the bunk house, a low building. To the right was the ranch house.
Hashknife leaned against the corral fence and looked at the horses. There were seven of them, nosing around at loose wisps of hay. Hashknife grinned as his eyes shifted to four of them, which seemed little interested in anything. Cautiously he worked around the side of the corral and went over to the stable, where he glued his ear to a crack.
Satisfied that there was no one in the barn, he circled the building, with the intention of taking a look at the bunk house; but the fairly close sound of a revolver shot caused him to draw back and run around to the opposite side, where he peeked around the corner.
A black horse, now almost white with lather, stumbled into the yard, its rider swaying sidewise in the saddle. It was Eph King. Behind him came Marsh Hartwell, Jack Hartwell, Sudden Smithy and Sunshine Gallagher. The sheriff drove his horse in close to King and caught the big sheepman before he could fall from his saddle. The others were off their horses immediately and helped place King on the ground.
Hashknife did not leave his position. Some one yelled a question from the bunk house, and Hashknife saw Slim De Larimore, Curt, Steil and Allison running from the bunk house to the group around King.
Hashknife jerked back and began rolling a cigaret, while his eyebrows drew together in a frown of concentration. He lighted the cigaret and peeked out again. The crowd was still standing around the prostrate figure of King, and Hashknife could hear them arguing over what had happened. Sunshine was talking loud enough to have been heard a quarter of a mile away.
“I suspected that King was the leader of the rustlers. By golly, we sure got him, didn’t we? Eh, Slim? Sure gave us one awful run.”
“That’s all right,” said Marsh Hartwell. “But I want to know who is doin’ all that shootin’ down there. Eph King was probably the leader of the rustlers—but who drove him away? It wasn’t our gang.”
Hashknife stepped away from the stable and walked toward them. Jack and Sunshine were facing him and saw him coming, but neither of them gave any indication of it. Hashknife was unhurried, smoking calmly on his cigaret. The sheriff was talking now.
“I dunno, Marsh. Mebbe it was some of our gang. We better leave King here under guard and go back.”
“One of my men will take care of him,” said De Larimore, and turned to see Hashknife standing within twenty feet of him.
“Not one of yore men,” said Hashknife calmly. “That would be too easy, Ed.”
Slim De Larimore did not move. Curt and Steil were close together at Slim’s left, with Allison behind them. Slim’s eyes shifted sidewise, as if looking for a way out, but he did not even move his feet. They thought Hashknife had either been killed or crippled.
“Ed?” said Jack Hartwell in a strained voice. “Hartley, did yuh call him Ed?”
“That’s his name,” said Hashknife evenly. “Ed Larrimer. I dunno where he got the De Larimore. Mebbe he got it like he usually got his horses, cows and saddles.”
“What do you mean?” breathed the owner of the Turkey Track.
“Just what I said, Larrimer. Long time I no see yuh, eh? I seen Curt and Lee Steil before. They call him ‘Casey’ Steil, I hear. Well, a feller has a right to his name, I reckon. But names don’t mean nothin’, except that a feller by the name of Preston knew you as ‘Ed’. You killed him, but yuh didn’t kill him quick enough.
“Always be sure that yore man is dead, Larrimer. Dead men tell no tales. And yuh didn’t change yore name enough. Larimore and Larrimer ain’t so different. And somebody told me what yuh looked like, acted like, and they said yuh was from Texas.”
“—— you, what do yuh mean?” gritted Larrimer. “My name is De Larimore, and I own this ranch. I can prove it ——”
“You don’t need to, Ed. Anyway, it’s too late for proofs. We are engaged with somethin’ kinda interestin’ now, and we don’t care what yore name is nor whether yuh own the Turkey Track, or not. What I want to know right now is this: Where is Jack Hartwell’s wife?”
Larrimer’s elbows jerked slightly and he twisted heavily on one heel, as if bracing himself.
“What in —— would I know about Jack Hartwell’s wife?” he asked thickly. “I’ve got all the——”
“I asked yuh where she is, Ed,” reminded Hashknife coldly. “You ain’t the kind of a man that would steal a woman—but yuh did. Now, —— yore dirty heart, where is she?”
Larrimer shrugged his shoulders helplessly and turned to the sheriff.
“Where did you find this —— fool?” he asked. “He’s loco.”
“He sure is crazy.” Thus Casey Steil anxiously.
“After it’s all over, we’ll find her, Jack,” assured Hashknife confidently. “Just remain where yuh are. We’ve got to kinda hurry things up, ’cause King has got to have a doctor.”
“He’ll be lucky if he ever gets one,” growled Marsh, wiping his sweat-stained face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Any dirty rustler that——”
“He’s no rustler,” said Hashknife quickly. “Eph King is pretty much of a gentleman, Hartwell. When he found out that a gang of cow thieves were takin’ advantage of you cattlemen, he led his gang down here. And they’re down there at that little shack, bustin’ up that crew of rustlers right now.”
“Brought his men?” queried Marsh with astonishment and unbelief in his face. “Was that what the shootin’——?”
“That’s it, Hartwell. I came with ’em. My pardner is down there now, helpin’ them sheepherders to wipe out the rustlers.”
“Why did King run away?” asked the sheriff.
Hashknife had never taken his eyes off Larrimer and his men, who remained motionless.
“He didn’t run away,” said Hashknife. “I seen him start, and I knew why he started. He wanted to catch the men who were responsible. We got to the shack too quick, I reckon. Four of the gang hadn’t quite reached there, and was able to make their getaway.
“If some of yuh will take a look at four of them horses in the corral over there, you’ll see that they came home real fast. Eph King was headed for the Turkey Track, when you headed him off. He knew where the leader of the gang was headin’ for, Sudden. You fellers made a mistake in throwin’ lead at Eph King, ’cause he was merely comin’ to collect from the man who had double-crossed him—Ed Larrimer, the man who planned the scheme that would put every cowman in Lo Lo Valley on a dead-line, while him and his crew from the JN outfit looted Lo Lo Valley. Hold still, Curt! Easy everybody!
“Ed, you and yore gang killed old Ed Barber. Boomer Bates mistook MacLeod for me or Sleepy, and killed him. Yore gang broke into Hork’s store and stole them shells, so that the cattlemen would be short of ammunition. And you killed Preston. He knew you as Ed Larrimer. Mebbe you was afraid that Jack Hartwell’s wife might tell what passed between you and Preston at Jack’s ranch, so you killed Preston and kidnapped Jack’s wife. Now, you murderin’ pup, what do yuh say?”
For several moments Larrimer did not move nor speak. Then he straightened slightly, wearily and turned to the sheriff.
“Sudden, I’ve never heard so many lies in my life. I don’t even know half what he’s talkin’ about. The man is crazy.”
Larrimer’s voice was absolutely sincere, convincing. Sudden cleared his throat and shifted his feet, while Jack looked imploringly at Hashknife, who was still tensed, grinning. King was trying to sit up, bracing his hands against the ground.
“Help him, Jack,” urged Hashknife softly.
Jack went quickly to King and lifted him to a sitting position. The big sheepman turned his white face to the crowd, staring at every one. Then—
“I heard,” he said hoarsely. “Hartley knows. I don’t know how he knows—but it’s true. I——”
Ed Larrimer darted sidewise, drawing his gun, realizing that King was able to prove too many things against him, but his hand jerked away from his gun and he whirled completely around, when Hashknife’s bullet smashed into his shoulder. Curt tried to jump behind Marsh Hartwell, but the big cattleman smashed him in the ear, knocking him sidewise and into Steil, who was just pulling the trigger on his six-shooter.
Steil’s gun and Hashknife’s sounded as one report. They were too close for a miss. Steil lowered his gun, looked foolishly at Curt, who was lying almost across his feet, and then sat down heavily. Larrimer was flat on the ground, clutching at his smashed shoulder, cursing weakly while Steil sat in silent contemplation of the dead man across his feet.
The sheriff stepped over and put his hand on Steil’s shoulder, but Steil did not respond. His head merely sagged a trifle lower.
“Good ——!” muttered Sudden. “He must ’a’ been dead before he hit the ground. Did he hit yuh, Hartley?”
“No-o-o,” said Hashknife softly. “He killed Curt. He was fallin’ right in front of Steil’s gun. Don’t let Larrimer get hold of that gun with his left hand. He’s ambidexterous.”
Sudden stepped over and picked up the gun, toward which Larrimer was working. A group of horsemen were riding down into the ranch, and Hashknife recognized Sleepy and Bill Steen in the lead.
There were thirteen men in the crowd—but one of them was roped to his saddle. The sheepmen had come through without a casualty. They dismounted and came over to the group. Steen ignored the questions and went to King.
“Eph, are yuh badly hurt?” he asked anxiously.
“I don’t know, Bill. I got hit twice and I feel kinda weak. Everythin’ is all right now. Hartley put the deadwood on’ em. The sheriff thought I was one of the rustlers, and they shot me up quite a little but that’s all right.”
“I’m danged sorry,” said Sudden. “I didn’t know, yuh see.”
Hashknife turned to Jack.
“The men will help yuh search the ranch, Jack. Yore wife must be around here somewhere.”
“She’s in the loft of the barn,” said Larrimer weakly. “It’s no use makin’ any more trouble. We didn’t harm her any.”
“We got Jack Noonan, Hashknife,” said Sleepy, pointing at the man on the horse, who was trussed up tightly with ropes. “He was the only one worth bringin’ back. Yuh see, the rest of ’em stuck to the ship. Dang yuh, why did yuh run away from me?”
Sleepy looked at the bodies of Curt and Steil and at Ed Larrimer, who was sitting up, holding to his right shoulder.
“Well, I’ll be danged if it ain’t Ed Larrimer, the Texas Daisy!”
“Oh, go to ——!” groaned Larrimer. “I should have turned the gang loose to kill you two and let the cows go to ——”
“You came danged near gettin’ us the first night we showed up here,” laughed Hashknife.
“I know it. If we’d have known that it was you two, you’d never got out of Jack Hartwell’s place alive, I’ll tell yuh that, Hartley.”
“Here comes Jack and his wife!” exclaimed Sleepy.