Dear Dad:I will arrive nearly as soon as this letter, but am sending it anyway. I hope that your injured arm is better now. It was very kind of your foreman, Mr. Easton, to write in your stead, and I shall thank him personally for his offer to meet me at Gunsight.I can hardly wait to see you. Just to think that I have never seen you since I was old enough to remember, but we will make that all up, daddy. I have just money enough to take me to Caldwell, and I am coming as fast as I can travel.Since mother passed out I have felt entirely alone in the world, and even if you and mother could not be happy together, I am sure we can. Loads of love and a big hug very soon.Your loving daughter,Jane.P. S.—I will be with you in time to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.
Dear Dad:
I will arrive nearly as soon as this letter, but am sending it anyway. I hope that your injured arm is better now. It was very kind of your foreman, Mr. Easton, to write in your stead, and I shall thank him personally for his offer to meet me at Gunsight.
I can hardly wait to see you. Just to think that I have never seen you since I was old enough to remember, but we will make that all up, daddy. I have just money enough to take me to Caldwell, and I am coming as fast as I can travel.
Since mother passed out I have felt entirely alone in the world, and even if you and mother could not be happy together, I am sure we can. Loads of love and a big hug very soon.
Your loving daughter,
Jane.
P. S.—I will be with you in time to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.
Along the margin of the paper was written—
I am glad you liked the picture of myself, which I sent you, daddy.
Hashknife lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at Skelton, who was moving his lips slowly over the written words. Skelton straightened up and shook his head.
“I don’tsabethat foreman stuff. Spot Easton never was foreman of the 88.”
“Has Lonesome Lee been nursin’ a sore arm?” asked Sleepy.
Skelton laughed shortly.
“’F he has, I never knowed it. That letter’s sure got me pawin’ m’ head. I never knowed that Lonesome Lee had a wife or daughter.”
“And,” added Hashknife meaningly, “Spot Easton was kind enough to want to meet her in Gunsight. He was also doin’ the writin’ for Lonesome, ’cause Lonesome had a sore arm.”
“Whatcha make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.
Hashknife pondered over the manufacture of a cigaret, and read the letter again before he spoke.
“’Pears to me that the lady done sent her picture, previous. Mebbe she’s pretty, which would attract Mister Easton. It also appears that Mister Easton has got old Lonesome Lee where the hair’s short and tender, and he’s kinda runnin’ Lonesome’s business.
“Accordin’ to signs, Mister Easton has lied to said lady, who thinks her paw is somebody. Paw ain’t got no nerve left to object, and Mister Easton has likely told him that he has invited this here daughter to live at the 88. Paw ain’t got the guts to howl against such things, and when he finds that the letter is from Boston he’s plumb shaky that it tells about daughter’s de-parture. Mister Easton naturally is wishful to know how his invite has worked out; which is the reason he grabbed at the letter. That’s how she looks to me.”
“’F that’s a fact, I sure as —— feel sorry fer her,” stated Skelton sadly.
“Yuh might feel sorry for Lonesome, too,” said Hashknife. “He’s all shot to pieces with hooch, and he likely knows that she’s comin’ to find him.”
“Figurin’ she’s goin’ to be happy with him,” added Sleepy mournfully. “Comin’ to celebrate her eighteenth birthday. ——!”
Hashknife got to his feet and walked over to the open door, where he leaned against the casing and contemplated deeply. The sun had already dropped behind the hills, which looked like blue silhouettes, with silver trimmings. Far away on the skyline drifted a herd of cattle; their outlines blurred from the back-light of the sunset.
From below the long sheds came a string of cattle, heading for the water-hole opening on the brushy stream; bawling softly, as they followed the deeply-worn trail. Magpies chattered sleepily in the cottonwoods.
“Makes a feller wonder how a man can live in a land like this and hate anybody,” muttered Hashknife.
He turned to come back to the table, when—
Ping-g-g—Whop!
Skelton fell backward out of his chair, clawing at the coffee, which sprayed all over him. Sleepy threw himself sidewise out of line with the door, and from somewhere came the thin, whip-like report of a high-powered rifle.
Hashknife kicked the door shut and gawped at Skelton, who got to his feet, shook the coffee out of his eyes, and picked up the coffee-pot—or what remained of it.
The soft-nose bullet had hit it near the bottom and there was nothing much left to identify it as a coffee-pot, except the color and odor. Even the ceiling was dotted with coffee-grounds.
“Anybody hurt?” asked Hashknife.
Skelton gazed ruefully at the remains of the pot, and dug inside his collar after more grounds.
“——!” he snapped. “They didn’t miss us very far that time.”
“Common occurrence?” asked Hashknife.
“Periodical. Last week I was shakin’ some stuff out of a fry-pan outside, and they nailed the ol’ pan, dead-center. Wrenched —— out of m’ wrist, too. Never even saw where the bullet came from. I dunno whether they’re hintin’ fer me to move, or missin’ their target.”
“Got —— good eyes, if they shot at that pot,” grunted Hashknife, “’cause that rifle wasn’t closer than five hundred yards.”
“Cat-eyes,” added Sleepy. “Nobody could see into a house at this time of the day. Thathombrewasn’t aimin’ to spill our coffee, y’ betcha.”
“Got a rifle, Skelton?” This from Hashknife.
“Dang right I have.”
He walked over to one of the bunks and threw back the blankets. He ran his hand over them, dug under the straw-tick, and stepped back, looking curiously around.
“What do you know about that?” he grunted. “It ain’t there!”
“Are you sure?” asked Hashknife.
“Lemme think. It was there yeste’day, ’cause I took it out when I made the bed. I know danged well—no, I ’member leanin’ it agin’ the wall.”
He glanced around the room and shook his head.
“Don’t make a —— bit of difference; it’s gone.”
“What kind was she?” asked Sleepy.
“Winchester.30-30.”
“That wasn’t it we found near the Swede, was it?”
“No-o-o—I’m —— ’f I know whether it was or not. I never looked at it. Fact is, I never used it. I’m not worth a —— with a rifle, but I sure dosabethe old shotgun and buckshot, or a six-gun. Never liked that idea of shootin’ a man with a mushroom bullet.”
“Does kinda unravel a man,” Hashknife agreed. “When did you buy that .30-30?”
“I acquired it with this —— ranch, along with the rest of the misery.”
Hashknife nodded slowly and considered the ceiling. A question had suddenly popped into his head and he wanted to consider it before speaking. The coffee-grounds were beginning to loosen from the ceiling, and some of them drifted into his eye. He dug them out thoughtfully and turning to Skelton said—
“You got any relations, Skelton?”
“Not a danged kin,” grinned Skelton. “One of my kind is e-nough, ain’t it?”
“’F you got killed,” suggested Hashkinfe, “who’d get this ranch?”
Skelton scratched his head violently.
“Never thought of that, Hartley. Why, I reckon the sheriff would sell it to the highest bidder. But who would bid on it—I dunno.
“Shucks!” Skelton added. “It must be somethin’ pers’nal. Nobody’d kill me to get a chance to buy this —— ranch. That ain’t reasonable.”
“Human nature is a queer thing,” said Hashknife. “I knowed a feller who was sent to the penitentiary for stealin’ Christmas presents, which were goin’ to be given to him.”
“Why didn’t you add the fact that he knowed it?”
“I know when to quit lyin’,” said Hashknife gravely.
He got to his feet, went to the door, and peered out.
“Gets dark quick around here,” he said. “I reckon it’s plumb safe to saddle up now. That bushwhacker likely went away as soon as he fired that one shot.”
“Saddle up? What for, f’r gosh sake?”
Sleepy settled back comfortably in his chair.
“Me and you are goin’ to Caldwell.”
“What fer?”
“That inquest is tomorrow afternoon, Sleepy.”
“Oh, I see,” said Sleepy sarcastically. “’Fraid you’ll be late if you don’t start now?”
“You might put it thataway,” admitted Hashknife. “We’ll be back kinda late, Skelton, I reckon; so I’ll call m’ name when we come home.”
Skelton nodded dubiously and said:
“’S your own business, Hartley, and I reckon you can take care of yourself. I dunno what you got on your mind, but I wish you well.”
Hashknife grinned at Sleepy’s disgruntled way of pulling on his chaps, and went out of the door. Sleepy swore softly as he followed him.
Spot Easton was not in a happy frame of mind at all. His ear had swollen to twice its normal size and had assumed the shade of a pickled beet. It not only pained him, but it hurt his pride; he was not in the habit of getting the worst of a personal encounter.
The evening business of the War-Bonnet was beginning to be audible to Spot, who was sequestered in his little private room in the rear. A half-empty whisky bottle decorated the table beside him, and his jaws were clamped tightly over a badly frayed cigar, which smoked much from the wrong end. He jerked it out of his mouth, cursed and hurled it across the room where it continued to throw up a streamer of smoke.
Just then, without any warning, the door swung open and Lonesome Lee staggered in. The old man was gloriously drunk, but tried to brace up when he faced Easton.
“Sus-somebody said you wanted to shee me,” he muttered thickly.
“Yes; you lousy old bum!” snapped Easton, kicking a chair away from the table.
Lonesome eased himself shakily into the chair and sprawled weakly.
“Where’s that letter?” demanded Easton.
“Tha’ letter?” Lonesome grinned foolishly. “Wha’ letter?”
“The one you got today. The letter—oh, ——!”
Lonesome had emitted a long-drawn snore and his head sank slowly until his chin was buried in his collar.
Spot Easton shoved away from the table and, going over to Lonesome, proceeded to go through the old man’s pockets. He shook Lonesome, but the old man continued to snore loudly.
Spot caressed his aching ear, while he reviled Lonesome with every foul epithet his tongue could command. Tiring of that, he drank half of the remaining liquor, threw the bottle across the room, and sat down again.
Then came Jack Blue. He too was a privileged character and did not wait to knock on the door. He squinted at Lonesome and sat on the edge of the table.
“Why don’t you have Doc Clevis fix up yore ear?” he asked, noticing that Easton was fingering the sore organ.
“That —— veterinary!” exploded Easton.
“Doc could take out the soreness.”
“I’m —— if he could!” rasped Easton. “Only one thing’d take the soreness out of that ear, and that’s to notch a sight on that long-geared misfit that hit me.”
“He’s a fresh whippoorwill, all right,” admitted Blue. “Never seen anybody with the gall he’s got. Somebody’s due to make jerky out of his tongue.”
“Y’betcha,” agreed Easton, “and I’m him.”
Blue jerked his head toward the sleeping Lonesome——
“Did he have that letter, Spot?”
“Naw!”
“That puncher still got it?”
Spot looked very disconsolate, but did not answer.
“What was in it, do you reckon?”
“How’d I know?”
Blue gnawed off an enormous chew of tobacco and moved to a chair.
“’F he’s still got the letter I’ll git it for you tomorrow, Spot.”
“How?”
“Law requires that I search all prisoners, tha’s why.”
“Thasso?” Spot Easton grew interested. “You goin’ to put him in jail?”
“I sure as —— am. More’n that, I’m goin’ to put the both of ’em in jail, along with old man Skelton.”
“How you goin’ to make it look right?”
Blue spat copiously and grinned at the ceiling.
“That was old Skelton’s rifle which they found beside the drunk Swede.”
“Skelton’s rifle? And he brought it to you?”
“Nope. I went past there yesterday and I dropped in to call on Skelton—knowin’ he was in town.”
“And swiped his rifle?”
“Uh-huh. Belonged to old Bill Wheeler, and she’s got a li’l 33 cut into the forearm. She’s a cinch to hang it onto Skelton, and I can hold them other two—easy.”
Easton laughed and got to his feet.
“You’re clever, Jake. Let’s go and get a drink.”
“I sure am.”
Blue was not adverse to applauding himself. Being a sheriff in Lodge-Pole county entailed too much danger for the remuneration; so nobody cared much about a sheriff’s morals—or methods.
Easton gazed approvingly upon the amount of activity within the four walls of the War-Bonnet, as he led the sheriff to the bar. The click of dice, the rattle of poker chips and the droning voices of dealers was sweet music to Easton’s ears.
A number of men were standing at the bar, but Easton and Blue ignored them. Two cowboys were shaking dice on the bar-top at Easton’s right hand.
“’At’s horse ’n horse,” declared one of them. “One flop, Sleepy.”
Easton shot a sidewise look at the speaker. It was the tall cowboy, who had hit him on the ear, standing elbow to elbow with him; intent on his dice shaking.
Easton slowly turned his head and looked at Blue, who was toying with his glass of liquor. The dice rattled.
“You’re stuck!” exclaimed Hashknife.
Easton jerked his head around and looked square into Hashknife’s face.
“How’s the ear?” asked Hashknife.
The question placed Easton in an embarrassing position. He could not see Hashknife’s right hand, and his own hands were on the bar. Blue squinted past Easton’s shoulder at Hashknife, and Hashknife grinned at him.
Sleepy leaned forward on the bar and craned his neck around Hashknife.
“I hope to die, if I ain’t terror-stricken!” he gasped. “We’ve been told that it’s fash’nable to be plumb scared of Mister Easton; so we turns pale, politely.”
Easton tore his eyes away from Hashknife’s grinning face and looked straight into the back-bar. His mind worked swiftly, but got nowhere. He was being insulted in his own house. Jake Blue leaned away from the bar, as if to move into the crowd, but Sleepy stepped around behind Hashknife and Blue leaned back against the bar.
“Where’s the old man—old Lonesome Lee?” asked Hashknife.
Easton turned quickly.
“What do you want of him?”
“Want to give him that letter,” explained Hashknife.
“Oh!” Easton’s grunt seemed to relieve him.
“’F he ain’t around here, mebbe you could take care of it for him, eh?”
“Sheriff’s nervous,” interrupted Sleepy. “’Pears to have a itch on his hip. Likely comes from a callous caused by packin’ such a heavy gun.”
Jake Blue scowled, but said nothing.
“I’ll give him the letter,” nodded Easton, trying to not appear too eager to be of service.
Hashknife’s concealed right hand flipped the letter to the bar in front of Easton and dropped back. Easton picked up the letter and started to put it in his vest-pocket, but Hashknife stopped him.
“Whoa, Blaze!”
Easton stared at him wonderingly, as Hashknife motioned for him to stop.
“Not in a vest-pocket, pardner. Put it in your side pants-pocket, if you don’t mind. That’s the only pocket where a tin-horn gambler don’t pack a derringer.”
Easton scowled and shoved the letter into the designated pocket. He wondered if this tall cowpuncher was a mind reader, and knew that he was going to use the letter as an excuse to get at the two-barreled derringer in his vest-pocket.
“’F you don’t stop hankerin’ t’ scratch—” Sleepy’s voice held a note of menace—“’f you don’t, I’m goin’ to get a piece of sandpaper and give you one good curryin’, Mister Sheriff. Ain’tcha ashamed to scratch thataway in comp’ny?”
“By ——, I’m tired of this!” wailed the exasperated Mr. Blue. “Who’re you, anyway, I’d like to know? What right you got to tell me when I can scratch and when I can’t?”
“I’m just teachin’ you how to act polite, ain’t I?” complained Sleepy. “Gee cripes, you sure do act peevish over learnin’ things. ’F I was you——”
“Don’t tease the li’l gent, Sleepy,” Hashknife said, chuckling. “His chilblains has likely extended up to his hips. You know how cold feet makes you itch.”
Hashknife kept his eyes on Easton, while talking direct to Sleepy, and he saw a flash of relief come over Easton’s face. A man had stepped in behind him, brushing against Hashknife’s right elbow, and Easton’s eyes had followed this man.
The conversation had been even lower than ordinary and had attracted no attention.
It all happened in a few seconds. As the man brushed Hashknife’s arm, Hashknife stepped quickly away from the bar; stepped away just in time to let Hagen, the ex-88 cowboy, crash into Easton.
Hagen had intended to bump Hashknife hard enough to knock him off his balance, but he had not expected Hashknife to move so quickly.
Easton whirled half-around and jammed his heels on to Jake Blue’s toes, while Hagen half-fell to his knees. Like a flash, Easton struck at Hashknife, and his bare knuckles came in contact with Hashknife’s heavy six-shooter.
Sleepy sprang in to prevent Blue from drawing a gun, and his knee caught Hagen just under the chin, knocking his head against the solid bar with a dull tunk! Easton’s right hand went out of commission and he stumbled awkwardly over Hagen’s legs, falling flat on the floor, while Sleepy pinned Blue’s arms in a bear-like hug, swung him up bodily and backed to the door. Hashknife backed swiftly out with him, covering the surprized crowd, which had no idea of what had been going on.
Once outside they went swiftly to the hitch-rack, with Sleepy still carrying the cursing sheriff.
“What’ll I do with him?” panted Sleepy. “I don’t want him.”
“Got his gun?” asked Hashknife.
“It’s back in the War-Bonnet.”
“Let him loose,” laughed Hashknife. “We ain’t collectin’ knick-knacks.”
Sheriff Blue sat down so heavily in the hard street that his tongue, for once, refused to function. Hashknife and Sleepy mounted swiftly and whirled back past the War-Bonnet, where men were crowding the doorway.
Spot Easton cursed bitterly as he saw them flash past the beams of yellow light, then he turned back to “Blondy” Hagen, who was still sitting in front of the bar, holding his head in his hands.
Easton’s right hand was deeply cut and swelling rapidly. He cursed it fluently and turned to see Jake Blue coming in, covered with dust, his face badly scratched.
Blue had nothing to say. Men crowded around them, wondering what had been the reason for the fight, but none of the three victims seemed inclined to explain things. Hagen got to his feet and started for the door.
“You!” gritted Easton bitterly.
Hagen scowled blackly and shouldered his way out of the door, where he turned and glared back at Easton.
“Aw! You be ——!” he snorted, and went away.
“It’s a large night,” said Blue inanely.
The coroner’s inquest over the remains of Quinin Quinn caused little excitement in Caldwell. The fact that Quinin was dead was enough in itself; who killed him, was merely conjectured and Lodge-Pole county felt that it would remain so, according to precedent.
The jury listened patiently to Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton, while Doc Clevis, puffing with his own importance, crossquestioned them. Swede Sam was there, blank-faced over the whole thing, and all that Doc Clevis could get from him was:
“Ay dunno. Ay am de cook.”
Neither Easton nor Blondy Hagen was at the inquest, which was held at the doctor’s home. Sheriff Blue glared silently at the floor during the proceedings, looking at no one.
“Sheriff,” said Doc Clevis, turning away from Swede Sam, “you’ve got a little evidence to show the jury, ain’t you?”
Jake Blue looked straight at Hashknife for a moment and then he answered—
“Nope.”
“Why, I—I thought——”
Doc Clevis seemed surprized.
Blue shook his head.
“We-e-ll, I reckon that’s all—then,” said the doctor slowly, looking at Blue.
He turned to the jury and added—
“You can think this over now, and——”
“It ain’t goin’ to require much thinkin’,” said a raw-boned cattleman. “These two strangers tell a straight story, and Skelton sure never shot Quinn.”
“What about the Swede?” asked the doctor.
“I reckon the sheriff ought to apologize to him for puttin’ him in jail at all.”
Blue scowled, but said nothing.
“It’ll be the reg’lar verdict, Doc,” nodded one of the jury. “We finds that Quinin Quinn demises at the hands of a party, or parties, unknown. And,” he added, “that sure as —— ain’t settin’ no new example around here.”
The jury nodded and got to their feet.
“You’re free, Swede,” grunted Blue savagely.
“Das goot,” nodded Swede Sam, getting to his feet. “Now Ay buy drink—for me.”
Blue hurriedly left the room ahead of the rest, and went straight to the War-Bonnet. Spot Easton was near the door evidently waiting for news, but Blue silently headed straight for the private room, and Easton followed him.
Blue flopped down in a chair and bit savagely into a plug of tobacco. His jaws fairly quivered as he spat out the twisted piece of metal—the trademark on the plug.
“Hook it on to ’em, Jake?” asked Easton, easing himself into a chair.
“Hook ——!” Blue’s vocal cords seemed to unhook with a bang.
“What do you mean, Jake? Didn’t the jury——?”
“To —— with the jury! They turned the Swede loose and said that Quinn was killed by parties unknown; that’s what happened!”
“——!” grunted Easton. “I thought you was so —— clever.”
“Thasso?”
Blue masticated rapidly as if trying to control his temper.
“How about that rifle?” asked Easton.
Blue spat explosively.
“You want to know, do you? So do I! I had that rifle in a rack in my office. I had three more rifles in that same rack. I went to git that rifle this mornin’ and——”
“It wasn’t there, eh?” interrupted Easton.
“You’re —— right it wasn’t! Neither was the other three.”
“You’re clever,” admitted Easton. “Clever as ——! What did you leave——”
“Lemme alone!” snarled Blue. “Don’tcha ride me, Spot! If you thought of that, why didn’t you say so? You’re so danged smart that you always see mistakes after they happen.”
Easton made no reply to this, and a deep gloom seemed to pervade the little room: Blue chewed mechanically, his eyes closed, a picture of abject despair; while Easton considered his bandaged right hand, which ached badly. His knuckles still tingled from contact with that heavy gun.
“Hagen knows that tall jasper,” he volunteered.
“Yeah?”
Blue spat and leaned back.
“Name’s Hashknife. Hagen says he’s a fightin’ hound.”
“My ——!” exploded Blue. “D’ you need to be told?”
After another long period of silence Easton said—
“I’m goin’ to make a trip to Gunsight, Jake.”
“Thasso? Whatfer?”
“Business. Leavin’ pretty soon.”
Jake Blue got to his feet and walked to the door, where he turned and squinted at Easton.
“What in —— do I care where you go? I’m gittin’ sick of havin’ eve’thing goin’ wrong all the time. If we’re goin’ to let that long-geared coyote run this country, let’s both go and give him room. We ain’t a —— bit better off ’n we was.”
“Takes time, Jake.” Easton’s tone was conciliatory.
Blue masticated viciously.
“Where’s Doc goin’ to bury Quinn?”
“I dunno, but I think Doc’s goin’ to start a new graveyard with Quinn. Said he’d picked out a spot back of town. Is that Hashknife person still here?”
“—— him; I suppose so. If I was you I’d sneak out the back way, Spot—if you want to git away safe-like.”
Jake Blue slammed the door behind him and went down the big room, half-grinning to himself. At least it was some satisfaction to goad Spot Easton, who was losing prestige about as fast as possible. Easton’s reputation had been earned, but he seemed to be running into a series of hard-luck and mistakes. Jake Blue also felt that the god of luck had deserted him, but he blamed everybody except himself. He went out of the front door and ran into Doc Clevis.
“I’ve been lookin’ for you,” stated Clevis. “What happened to you, Jake? Was you afraid to produce that rifle?”
Blue cursed solemnly and told the doctor what he had told Spot Easton. Doc Clevis removed his hat and polished his bald head with his palm.
“Somebody,” declared the doctor, “stole them guns.”
“Didja think they walked away?” Blue said sarcastically, and added—
“Where’d Skelton and them two longhorns go to?”
Doc Clevis did not know. He was dry, and he offered to buy a drink, but Jake Blue refused.
“You better let me look you over,” said the doctor. “Any time you refuses a drink, you’re sick.”
Jake Blue turned wearily away from the doctor and went toward the office. Spot Easton went to the livery-stable and in a few minutes he came out driving a tall, bay horse hitched to a top-buggy. He drove to the sheriff’s doorway, where Blue leaned dejectedly.
“I’m goin’ to Gunsight,” said Easton.
“You’ve got my consent,” grunted Blue, and as Easton drove out of town he added, “I hope t’ —— you run off a grade and never hit bottom.”
Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton had left town immediately following the inquest. Hashknife was standing in the ranch-house doorway when Easton drove past, headed for Gunsight—the terminus of a branch railroad.
Easton did not look toward the house, but Hashknife recognized him.
“There goes the foreman of the 88, Skelton,” he said.
“Th’ son-of-a-rooster!” grunted Skelton. “He’s done read that letter and he’s goin’ to meet her in Gunsight.”
Easton disappeared around a curve in a cloud of dust, and Hashknife rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“How far’s it to Gunsight?”
“Thirty miles—about.”
“Huh!” Hashknife cogitated deeply. “If she comes in tonight, he’ll likely make the return trip with her.”
“Danged lonesome ride at night,” observed Skelton.
Sleepy came up from the corral and sat down on the steps.
“What’s the matter, long feller?” he asked as he noticed Hashknife’s thoughtful expression.
“That’s what Easton likely wants,” mused Hashknife, ignoring Sleepy’s question. “A feller don’t lie in a letter without havin’ some kind of an ax to grind.”
“Lemme in on it, will you?” asked Sleepy.
“Spot Easton just went past in a top-buggy, and he’s headin’ for Gunsight.”
“That’s good. I reckon we can get along without him.”
“But,” said Hashknife slowly, “you gotta figure that the girl’s only eighteen years old. She won’tsabeSpot Easton.”
“I dunno much about human nature,” said Sleepy, “but I do know danged well that I’m hungry. Don’t we ever eat on this new job, Bliz?”
“Y’betcha,” grinned Skelton. “I’m goin’ t’ rustle some bull-beef and bakin’-powder biscuits right now. I was just wonderin’ why that rifle never showed up at the inquest.”
“Did your rifle have any mark on it, Skelton?”
“I dunno. I sure as —— couldn’t identify it.”
“Thassall right then,” grinned Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy examined ’em all before we sunk ’em in the crick—they all looked alike to us.”
Skelton scratched his head violently and squinted at Hashknife.
“You—uh—oh ——, yes! I know what you mean now. Top-hands, y’betcha—yes sir.”
Skelton went into the house and in a few moments he was busy with biscuit-dough, while Sleepy and Hashknife humped up on the steps and manufactured cigarets.
“Thirty miles to Gunsight,” observed Hashknife. “Right pretty little ride.”
“Yeah, it is,” admitted Sleepy.
“She sure is, Sleepy; nice li’l ride. We’ll saddle up as soon as we folds the stummick around a little provender.”
“Saddle up?” queried Sleepy. “You ain’t——”
“We are,” corrected Hashknife.
“Aw-w!” Sleepy protested softly. “You’re the dangdest person t’ hop into——”
“What’d you do, Sleepy?”
“Well, it ain’t our business noways, Hashknife.”
“Supposin’ Spot Easton was goin’ to meet your sister?”
“But she ain’t my sister.”
“’F you was Lonesome Lee’s son, she would be. Suppose you was, Sleepy.”
“I ain’t—not even supposin’, Hashknife.”
“Gosh a’mighty! Thirty miles! I suppose you’d go if it was sixty. Sixty miles ain’t much.”
“I never been able to figure you out, Hashknife.” Sleepy shook his head disconsolately. “You do the dangdest things I ever seen. Some day you’re goin’ to horn into things what don’t concern you, and you’ll meet a hunk of lead—face to face.
“You always kind of go out of your way to bother into other folks’ troubles. Every danged place we go you gets into some dang kind of a mixup, and she’s always because you feel sorry fer somebody. If it was only you I’d say for you to go to it and grab a tombstone but, blast it all, you always drags me into it.”
Sleepy stopped for lack of breath and glared at Hashknife.
“Yes sir,” nodded Hashknife slowly, “just suppose you was a brother to that girl. It’s thirty miles; which is some ride in the dark.”
“Hey!” yelled Skelton from the kitchen. “You jaspers like gravy with your spuds?”
“You spoke my daily prayer,” yelled Hashknife.
Sleepy got to his feet and stretched his arms.
“I hope that train don’t get in so early that we’ll have to hold up Spot Easton on the road. I had a sister, Hashknife, and I know what you mean.”
It was nine o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Gunsight, and the night was as dusky as the proverbial black cat. Gunsight was quite a bit larger than Caldwell and a trifle more modern, owing to the railroad which made it a shipping point for the surrounding country.
They dismounted at a hitch-rack and tied their horses.
“Mister Easton will likely put his horse in a stable,” stated Hashknife. “Especially if he aims to drive back tonight. We better kinda examine the livery-stable.”
They jingled their spurs down the sidewalk to where a lantern swung over a wide doorway, from within which came the unmistakable odor of a stable. Two more lighted lanterns were hung at the sides of the room to light up the rows of stalls.
A stable-man came out of the grain-room carrying another lantern which he placed on a backless chair near the door, and squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Evenin’,” he grunted. Cowboys usually made the stable their headquarters.
“Evenin’,” greeted Hashknife. “How’s business?”
“’S’all right, I reckon. The day man got drunk and I’m doin’ two shifts. Got any Durham?”
Hashknife passed him part of a sack and he rolled a cigaret.
“Ain’t much night business, is there?” asked Hashknife.
“Naw—not much; but just enough to make me miss a date with m’ girl. Figured to close up early, but a feller drove in a while ago, and he’s goin’ out agin’ tonight. Naturally I’ve got to linger around here ’till he starts travelin’ agin’. I ain’t no drinkin’ person, but whisky sure does cause me a lot of misery.”
“Can’t he hitch his own horse?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, I reckon he could; but it ain’t hardly good business to ask a feller to pay fer service and not git it.”
“That’s a fact,” agreed Hashknife solemnly. “We was just wonderin’ if we could bunk in the hay t’night. I don’t admire to pay a hotel four-bits for a chance to read my shirt the next mornin’.”
“Sure, sure. The loft’s got plenty of room, or you can sleep in the grain-room. They’s a bunk in there and some blankets.”
“That’s right kind of you,” said Hashknife. “If we can help you— Say, if it ain’t too late to keep that date with your girl——”
“Whatcha mean?”
“Well, is there any reason why I can’t tend to that feller’s horse? Ain’t no trouble to cinch a hull on a bronc. Course I wouldn’t take his money——”
“Thassall right, I got his money in advance. It ain’t no saddle-horse, though. If you don’t mind hitchin’ a horse to a buggy ——”
“Cinch,” grunted Hashknife. “Show me the horse and buggy, pardner.”
It took the man about a minute to point out the horse, harness and buggy. It was the tall, bay horse which Easton had driven from Caldwell. The stable-man was voluble in his thanks, and hurried away to keep his date. Hashknife and Sleepy grinned at each other as they sat down to wait for Easton’s return.
Blondy Hagen, following his run-in with Hashknife and Sleepy, had come to Gunsight. His head was still sore from its crash against the War-Bonnet bar, and he proceeded to embalm his wounded feelings in very bad whisky.
And when Blondy got drunk, he got bad. Like an Indian warrior he sang his own praises—until he saw Spot Easton drive in and stable his horse. Blondy was not afraid of Spot—not in the least, but he knew that Spot would have something to say about what happened in the War-Bonnet.
Blondy was one of those peculiar characters whose gun was always ready for hire, and he could still feel the weight of Spot Easton’s cash. He really wanted to see Spot and, if possible, get more money; but he felt that he really should do something to earn what he had already been paid.
He weaved out of the Ten-Spot saloon and balanced himself against a porch-post. Just to his left was a hitch-rack, partly lighted from the Ten-Spot window. He clung to the post and puzzled over the two horses, which looked familiar. Suddenly he remembered; and the memory caused him to straighten up and grunt softly to himself—
“Tha’s their broncs! Whatcha know?”
Blondy gawped foolishly and grew inspired. It might be worth his while to find Spot Easton and tell him that those two gall-laden punchers were in Gunsight. He lurched away from the post and proceeded to cut himself a wide trail down the sidewalk. He hadn’t the slightest idea where Spot Easton might be found; but Blondy hadn’t the slightest idea where he was going; so it made no difference.
He almost fell into the doorway of a restaurant as a man was coming out—and the man was Easton. He grabbed Blondy by the shoulder to keep him from falling, and shut the door behind him. Blondy got a glimpse of a very pretty girl sitting at a table; and then Spot Easton shoved him past the restaurant and into the darkness of an alley.
“What are you doin’ here, Hagen?” demanded Easton.
“Me? Leggo that arm! Whatcha think you are?”
“You know who I am,” growled Easton meaningly. “When did you come to Gunsight?”
“Thassall right,” said Blondy drunkenly.
“Don’t paw me ’round, Spot. I was looking fer you. Mebbe you’d like to know that them two Tombstone punchers are here.”
“Who?”
“You know; them two that kinda jiggered our play.”
“Oh!” Easton grunted softly. “What are they doin’ here?”
“I never seen ’em,” admitted Blondy, “but their broncs are tied to the rack at the Ten-Spot, y’betcha.”
“Are you sure, Hagen?”
“Betcha I am. I know that tall roan and the blue-gray.”
Spot Easton thought rapidly. If Hashknife and Sleepy were in Gunsight, they had a reason for coming—and he might be the reason. He suddenly realized that they had opened and read that letter, and he swore softly for not having thought of that before.
“Are they in the Ten-Spot?” he asked.
“Wasn’t,” Hagen replied. “I come out of there and found the horses.”
“The Ten-Spot is almost straight across the street from the livery-stable,” mused Easton aloud. “I wonder if they—Hagen, is there another livery-stable here?”
“Uh-huh. ‘Soapy’ Evans owns kind of a stable.”
“You want to earn your money, Hagen?”
“Tha’s me.”
“Go up to the livery-stable and find out if them two snake-hunters are there. Don’t let ’em see you; do you understand?”
“Prob’ly git killed, if I don’t,” grunted Hagen. “Where’ll I find you?”
“I’ll be right here waitin’ for you.”
It was about two blocks to the stable, and the average was about six saloons to a block. Hagen knew that he had won back the good graces of his employer; so he went in and partook of good cheer. Easton fretted in the dark and waited for a report, while Hagen weaved in and out of the saloons; getting closer to the stable at each entrance and exit, but also getting more cocksure of himself.
The last saloon took away every vestige of cowardice in Blondy Hagen’s make-up. He came out, balanced on the edge of the sidewalk, while he filled his lungs to capacity and then emitted a war-whoop that would have shamed any Indian on earth.
He stumbled off the sidewalk, gripped his six-shooter tightly, took his bearings from the lantern over the doorway of the stable and set sail.
He stumbled up the plank drive-way and into the dim light of the stable, telling himself hoarsely how very great he was and how Spot Easton depended upon him for everything. As he halted to inhale enough breath for another declaration, a rope seemed to descend from nowhere, tightened around his arms and body, and something threw him upside down with a great crash.
Strong hands picked him up and carried him away, and a moment later he felt himself hurled into space. He landed on something fairly soft, while above him came the crash of a closing door and the rasp of a padlock-hasp.
Hagen staggered to his feet and his head came in violent contact with the roof, and he sat down again. After much painful effort he secured a match and inspected his position. He peered all around, felt of his empty holster, and cursed wickedly when the match burnt his finger.
“I’m in the oat-bin,” he told himself, “an’ I ain’t got no gun. Tha’s pe-culiar, but ’s a fac’.”
And Blondy Hagen settled down in the oats and went to sleep, while Spot Easton cursed savagely and wondered if Hagen had run foul of those two unmentionable cowboys.
He had told Jane Lee that he was going to the livery-stable to get the horse and buggy. Peeking into the restaurant window he saw that she was nervously waiting his return. He prided himself on the fact that he had made an impression on her already and he knew that—well, he owned Lonesome Lee, and the girl did not know any one in Lodge-Pole county.
Hagen had had time to make several trips to the stable by this time. Easton began to worry. Finally he decided to take a chance. He hurried back into the restaurant.
“Just run into a feller who talked business, and it delayed me,” he explained. “I reckon you might as well come along with me as to stay here.”
He picked up her valise and led the way out to the street.
“It’s only a little ways,” he assured her, as he switched the valise to his left hand and slid his gun loose. “She’s a nice night.”
A cowboy came out of a saloon, braced his legs wide apart, whooped loudly and emptied his gun in the air. The girl drew back in affright, but Easton laughed and assured her that the shots meant nothing.
“You’re goin’ to like this country after you get used to it, Jane.”
“I—I suppose so,” she faltered. “It is all so new to me, and the houses seem so small.”
Easton said nothing. They walked up the sloping sidewalk to the door of the stable and stopped. There was not a sound from the interior, except horses munching hay.
Easton looked up and down the street. He could see the hitch-rack in front of the Ten-Spot, but was unable to distinguish the color of the horses.
“Hey!” he called. There was no response. “I suppose I’ll have to harness my own horse,” he said to the girl.
He placed the valise on the floor and walked slowly inside. The door of the grain room was partly open, and he peered in.
Came the dullchuck!of a muffled blow and Easton disappeared inside. The girl was watching him, and wondered how he had managed to get inside by dragging both feet.
From inside the room came a creaking noise and a crash, as if a bin-cover had been slammed down. Then the door opened and Hashknife and Sleepy stepped out.
“Howdy, ma’am,” said Hashknife politely. “Are you Miss Lee?”
“Why, yes. I—I—where is Mr. Easton?”
“Easton? O-o-o-oh, yeah. He’s in the oat-bin, ma’am.”
“I do not understand you.” The girl seemed puzzled.
“Harness the horse, Sleep,” commanded Hashknife. “This lady’s got to find a place to sleep.”
Sleepy gleefully brought out the horse and backed it into the buggy-shafts. Jane Lee stared at the tall cowboy beside her, and wondered at the mystery of it all.
“You drive the rig, Sleep,” ordered Hashknife. “I’ll bring your bronc along with me.”
“But,” objected the girl, “I—I—Mr. Easton is going to take me to my father’s ranch.”
“Was,” corrected Hashknife. “He’s goin’ to sleep with one of his hired men tonight, so we made him let us take you home.”
Hashknife shoved the valise into the rear of the buggy and helped her into the seat. She started to protest, but Sleepy chirped to the tall, bay horse and they rolled hollowly out of the doorway and headed homeward.
As Hashknife crossed to the horses, the stable-man came from down the street and went into the stable. He had seen the top-buggy going up the street, and he surmized that its owner had returned.
As he turned to go toward the rear he heard a muffled voice calling. He listened closely and decided that it came from the grain-room. He sneaked in and lighted a match. Some one was hammering on the inside of the oat-bin. The stable-man was taking no chances. He went outside, got a lantern, which he hung over the top of the bin, took an old shot-gun from behind the door and flipped the fastener loose from the lid of the bin.
A moment later the lid lifted and Spot Easton, very much disheveled, stood up and blinked foolishly.
“Wh-whatcha doin’ in my oats?” grunted the stable-man hoarsely.
“Aw! —— you and your oats!” groaned Spot, as he crawled painfully over the edge and rubbed his sore head.
He looked back inside and motioned to the stable-man to look. Cautiously the man looked down at the sleeping form of Blondy Hagen.
“This,” said the stable-man seriously, “this here is my-steer-i-us, by——”
“Where did they go?” asked Easton, rubbing his head, on which appeared to be a bump about the size and shape of an egg. “Did you see the lady?”
“Was there a lady?”
“You —— fool!” exploded Easton. “I brought a lady here with me;sabe? I came to get that horse and buggy I left here.”
The stable-man stepped outside and glanced across at the empty stall.
“The horse and buggy is gone,” he announced. “If you know where you left the lady, you might look and see if she’s still there or not.”
But Easton exploded a number of vile epithets and staggered away down the street. The stable-man went back, looked at Blondy Hagen, blew out the lantern and went outside and shoved the sliding-doors together.
“Too —— much hocus-pocus to suit me!” he grunted, and went home.
It was in the small hours of the morning when Mrs. Frosty Snow awoke from a troubled sleep—wherein she had fired Swede Sam in three languages—and sat up in bed. Frosty was on a cattle-buying trip, and Mrs. Snow was all alone in the ranch-house.
Some one was knocking urgently on the front door. She crawled out of bed, picked up a heavy Colt six-shooter, and padded her way to the front door.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“This is Hashknife Hartley, Mrs. Snow.”
“Kinda early, ain’t you?”
“Yes’m,” admitted Hashknife, “it is early. Can I talk to you?”
“If you don’t mind strainin’ your voice through the door.”
“I don’t mind,” Hashknife laughed softly. “But this has got to be confidential, Mrs. Snow. It’s about a girl.”
“Thasso?” Mrs. Snow’s voice was a trifle sarcastic. “I ain’t in the habit of bein’ woke up at four o’clock to pass out advice to the love-lorn, Mr. Hartley.”
“Listen, ma’am,” begged Hashknife. “This ain’t nothin’ matrimonial—honest to gosh. You know Spot Easton?”
“By sight and smell,” she replied. Spot Easton’s perfumery was not at all popular with the range folk.
“He lied to a girl,” stated Hashknife softly. “I done stole the girl from him, and I’ve gotta have somebody to take care of her for a while.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” demanded Mrs. Snow, opening the door about four inches. “Where is she? Tell me about her.”
Hashknife swiftly recounted what he knew about the girl, and about the situation at the 88 ranch.
“Bring her in,” ordered Mrs. Snow. “I’ll sure take care of her and nobody’s goin’ to know where she is. Prob’ly end up in a killin’, but that ain’t my affair. Say you’re livin’ at the Tombstone ranch? Yeah, that danged Swede came back.”
Hashknife went back to the dim outlines of a horse and buggy and returned in a moment with Jane Lee and Sleepy. After thirty miles in a top-buggy, with a companion who only talked in monosyllables, Jane Lee was more than willing to stay any place. She did not have the slightest idea of what it was all about. It was not like the reception she had expected. In fact, it was like a nightmare.
“Just edge to one side, while she comes in,” ordered Mrs. Snow. “Frosty Snow’s old woman is kind of in the rough at this time o’ day.”
Jane Lee walked in and Mrs. Snow closed the door to a few inches.
“Come agin, cowboys.”
“Yes’m, y’betcha,” laughed Hashknife, and the two men clumped down the steps and back to their horses and buggy, while Mrs. Snow put her arms around Jane Lee.
“Whatcha cryin’ for?” demanded Mrs. Snow. “My gosh, you’re all right, honey.”
“I—I don’t know what it is all about,” sobbed Jane. “I don’t know what became of Mr. Easton, and——”
“Don’tcha worry about that sidewinder,” Mrs. Snow said soothingly. “You brace up and quit worryin’. Mebbe it was danged lucky them two punchers kidnaped you, honey.”
“But why did they?” demanded Jane with some heat.
“Didn’t you ask ’em?”
“Dozens of times. The one who drove the horse wouldn’t tell me anything. He kept singing something about being buried on the lone prairie.”
Mrs. Snow laughed and patted Jane on the shoulder.
“You brace up, honey. You’re danged lucky to ride all the way from Gunsight with a mournful cowpuncher, if you only knowed it. You snap into a nightgown and pile into my bed, and I’ll bet you’ll feel better. We’re common folks here at the Half-Moon, and, outside of havin’ an imported cook, we don’t put on much dog.”
“I suppose,” said Jane softly, “I should be thankful that I am here with you.”
“Yes, and you don’t know half of it, little lady.”
Hashknife and Sleepy took the horse and buggy back to Caldwell, and tied the horse to the rack beside the livery-stable. No one saw them come, and no one saw them leave, except one or two dogs, which barked sleepily.
They rode back to the Tombstone ranch, and stabled their horses just as the first light of dawn showed over the eastern hills.
They stopped in the porch of the ranchhouse as the sound of galloping horses came to their ears, and saw two riders swing around the bend, riding swiftly toward Caldwell. One rider was a little in the rear, and in the dim light he seemed to be a trifle unsteady in his saddle.
“Somebody unlocked the oat-bin,” laughed Hashknife softly, “and the bloodhounds are on the trail of a top-buggy.”
“They’re welcome to it,” yawned Sleepy. “Hope I never have to ride that far in one again. I sung all the time to kinda keep things cheerful.”
“My ——!” gasped Hashknife. “The poor girl!”
Spot Easton rode all the way from Gunsight with a blind, unreasoning rage in his heart. It had taken him quite a while to arouse the other stable-man in order to hire a saddle-horse, and then he had gone back to the oat-bin and made Blondy Hagen ride with him.
He did not have the slightest idea which way the horse and buggy had gone, until he rode into Caldwell and found it hitched outside the livery-stable. Hagen was still too drunk and sleepy to care how Easton felt, and listened indifferently while Easton polluted the morning air with profanity.
“’F I stole a horsh ’n buggy, I’d git hung,” stated Blondy knowingly.
“And that’s no —— lie, either!” snapped Easton. “Come on.”
Blondy followed him down to Jake Blue’s office. Easton hammered on the door with the toe of his boot. In a few moments Jake’s tousled head appeared and he demanded to know what in the adjective did anybody mean by waking him up in the middle of the night.
Rapidly, and with many oaths, Easton explained that Hashknife and Sleepy had stolen his horse and buggy at Gunsight.
“Thasso?” Blue shivered slightly. “Got any idea where they went with it?”
“Brought it here!” snapped Easton. “It’s tied to the livery-stable hitch-rack.”
“Then it ain’t stole a-tall.” Blue seemed relieved over this statement.
“They stole it from me!” yowled Easton. “I tell you they hit me on the head and threw me into a —— oat-bin!”
“Thasso,” nodded Blondy seriously. “I know, because I was in there, too.”
Blue started to laugh, but managed to choke it back. It was no place to laugh, and yet he howled inwardly at the thought of Easton and Hagen being thrown into an oat-bin.
“I want you to arrest the both of ’em on a charge of horse stealin’,” demanded Easton angrily, “and if you think there’s anything funny about it—go ahead and laugh.”
Blue grew serious. He did not relish the idea of going out to arrest those two men on such a serious charge.
“Are you sure they was the ones?” he asked. “Can you git up in court and swear that they stole your horse and buggy?”
“I’m —— ’f I can,” said Hagen. “All I knows——”
“Of course I can swear to it!” snapped Easton. “Do you think I’d get up there and admit that I didn’t know who done it?”
“If I had a good deputy-sheriff—” Blue expressed his thoughts in words.
“Take Hagen with you, Jake.”
“Like ——!” exploded Hagen. “No sir! I ain’t——”
“Since when did you break away from us?” queried Spot meaningly.
“Oh, awright. I ain’t breakin’ away from nobody, Spot; but when you monkey with them two jaspers there’s a hoo-doo on the job, I tell you. If you lemme try agin’ with the long-range stuff——”
“And miss again,” sneered Easton. “All the good that’s done is to make old Skelton more careful.”
“We ain’t had much luck, tha’s a fact,” said Jake Blue sadly. “Mebbe we went at it all wrong.”
“You can’t expect a fortune to come along and roost in your lap, can you?” asked Easton sneeringly. “We’ll get these two punchers into jail and then we’ll settle with old man Skelton.”
“If we’d only tried to buy the —— place at first,” argued Blue.
“Well, we didn’t!”
“It was your idea to make old Skelton sick of his place, so’s he’d be willin’ to sell cheap.”
“Yeah? How did I know that he was going to hang on in spite of everything? I done the best I could.”
“I reckon so, Spot. Doc Clevis tried to buy it agin’ from Skelton and the old son-of-a-gun made him a price this time.”
“How much, Jake?”
“Hundred thousand dollars.”
“That,” said Hagen seriously, “is more’n it’s worth.”
“Aw, ——!” exploded Easton. “If you’re tryin’ to be funny, Hagen——”
“Well, ain’t it?” wailed Hagen.
Easton turned back to Blue.
“You slam them two jaspers into jail right away,” he said. “If you need more help I can send in some of the boys from the 88.”
“All right,” Blue said dubiously. “You go and sleep f’r an hour or so, Hagen. This ain’t no blear-eyed job, y’betcha.”
“Make it longer’n that if you feel like it,” agreed Hagen. “Make it a week, and see if I git impatient.”
Easton and Hagen went back up the street toward the War-Bonnet. It was too early for Caldwell to be awake, and Easton wondered what old Lonesome Lee was doing out so early in the morning.
The old man was standing in front of the Paris restaurant, and for the first time in months he seemed to be sober.
“What in —— are you doing around so early?” questioned Easton as they came up to the old man.
“Just lookin’ around, thassall,” Lonesome Lee’s voice was very husky, but there was no trace of drunkeness left.
“Lookin’ around, eh? What for?”
“Just for instance.” The old man was a trifle belligerent.
This attitude did not please Spot Easton. He much preferred to have the old man whining for liquor.
“What’s biting you?” he snapped.
“Not a danged thing, Spot. I’m sober today, if you take notice, and I’m lookin’ for a letter I lost.”
“Letter?” echoed Easton. “What letter?”
“I was drunk,” continued the old man, “but I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know about that letter. Somehow I remember you tellin’ me about other letters, Spot— letters that you wrote. I’ve been a —— old drunken bum, but I’m sober right now and I want to know a few things.”
“That must ’a’ been the letter that the long cowboy had,” said Blondy unthinkingly.
Easton shot Blondy a withering glance and turned back to Lonesome.
“I dunno what you’re talking about, Lee.”
“I remember the tall cowboy,” muttered Lonesome. “He was a stranger. But you got the letter, Spot.”
Spot Easton’s hand went mechanically to his ear as he shook his head.
“No, I’m —— if I did! You ask Windy who got that letter. Come on and let’s have a drink, Lonesome.”
Lonesome shook his head slowly, licked his lips and walked away. Easton glared after him and turned to Hagen:
“Will you ever learn to keep your danged tongue out of my affairs? Ain’t you got sense enough to let me do the talkin’? Now, that —— old fool will likely talk to everybody and—aw, ——! I hope you and Jake Blue will get your men today. I don’t want Lonesome Lee to talk to Hashknife. It may take a killin’ to prevent it.”
“You don’t let me in on anythin’,” complained Blondy bitterly. “You talk about letters and cattle-brands and the Tombstone ranch, and you never let me know the why of anythin’. All I’m good fer is to bush-whack, somebody.”
“You get paid for it, don’t you?” demanded Easton.
“Yeah, I get paid for it.”
“Then keep your mouth shut, Hagen. The less you know the safer you are—sabe? It’ll pay you to keep still.”
It was about noon when Hashknife and Sleepy woke up. Bliz Skelton was cooking breakfast for them and, though evidently curious, he asked no questions of what happened the night before.
“I went up to Caldwell last night,” he volunteered. “Ain’t been up there at night for a dog’s age, ’cause it wasn’t noways safe for me to be on the road after dark.”
“Any excitement?” yawned Hashknife, as he tugged at a tight boot.
“No-o-o,” Skelton twisted his face away from the spattering bacon. “Doc Clevis offered to buy this ranch again. A few weeks ago he offered me eight thousand, but last night he made it nine. Got kinda ruffed ’cause I wouldn’t take his offer.”
“You’ve had other offers, ain’t you?” asked Sleepy.
“Yeah. Spot Easton offered me seventy-five hundred.”
“That don’t noways include the stock, does it?” queried Hashknife.
“No. Just the ranch-house and what fenced ground goes with it. When Spot made that offer I reckon I had about seven hundred head of 33 cows on this range, but right now a 33 critter is as scarce as vi’lets in Jan’wary.”
“Well, gee cripes!” exploded Hashknife, stamping his feet on the floor. “You mean to stand there and tell me that you let somebody run off all your stock?”
“Well, I—I didn’t ‘let’ ’em, Hashknife. ’Pears that you don’t have to let folks rustle your cows.”
“Ain’t you complained none?”
“Who’d I complain to?”
“That’s a question,” admitted Hashknife. “I reckon you’ll just about have to sell out, Bliz.”
“—— if I will! No gosh danged bunch of——”
Bliz let loose of his skillet and grabbed his short shot-gun from its rack beside the door. Some one had ridden up to the porch, and now was coming up the steps to the door.
Bliz stepped back out of line with the door and motioned to Sleepy to open it. Some one knocked loudly. Sleepy grasped the knob and drew the door open, keeping himself behind it, while Jake Blue and Blondy Hagen stood there and blinked into the muzzle of Skelton’s riot-gun and wished they had postponed their visit.
“Put dud-down that gun,” stuttered Blue, trying to force himself to be brave. “You—you——”
Blondy Hagen’s hands went up above his head, and he squinted dismally. His heart was not in this job at all.
“Whatcha want here, Blue?” asked Skelton.
Jake Blue tore his eyes away from the menacing gun barrels and squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy.
“I want them two,” he replied. “I’ve got warrants for their arrest for horsestealin’.”
He started to reach for his pocket, but changed his mind. Such a move might be suicide. Hashknife walked over to the door and looked at Blue.
“Who swore out that warrant, sheriff?”
“Spot Easton.”
“Yeah?” Hashknife seemed greatly amused. “You go back and tell Spot Easton to come and get us, will you?”
“I’m the sheriff!” snapped Blue.
“That’s sure a deplorable fact,” agreed Hashknife, “and one of the main reasons why we refuse to get ourselves arrested. We’d have a sweet time ever gettin’ out of jail, whether we were innocent or guilty.”
“If you could prove—” began Blue, but Hashknife interrupted him.
“Prove it? Why, we’d have a fine chance. I suppose we’d have to stay in jail until the first term of court, eh?”
“Unless the judge would turn you loose.”
“Judge Pelley’d jist about do that,” grunted Skelton. “He knows about as much law as my old pinto horse, and he’d send his mother to jail for a quart of booze. Him and Spot Easton are thicker’n thieves.”
“I’ve got to do m’ duty,” wailed Blue. “I ain’t noways responsible for what Judge Pelley would do, am I? You’re resistin’ an officer of the law, if you only know it.”
“Ain’t nobody resisted you—yet,” Hashknife reminded him softly, “but if you don’t crawl to your horses and rattle your hocks out of here, I’ll nail your pants to the floor and leave you there to starve.”
“Come on,” urged Hagen. “There’s a difference in bein’ brave and bein’ a —— fool, Jake. I never knowed a two-barrel gun yet what wasn’t easy on the trigger. Come on.”