Hagen turned and went down the steps to his horse, flexing his tired arms as he went. Jake Blue swallowed his pride, along with a lump in his throat, and followed him down the steps.
“This ain’t the last of it, y’betcha,” he called back to the open doorway. “There’s more’n one count agin’ you now.”
Skelton stepped out on the porch and pointed to where the road wound around the point of a hill.
“Speakin’ of counts, Jake; there’s just twenty goin’ to be said by me. If you ain’t around that corner——”
Twenty counts is a short time; but Jake Blue and Blondy Hagen beat it by four. It was an ignominious retreat, especially for Jake Blue, who had a reputation to sustain, but he was wise enough to go while the going was good.
Skelton turned to go into the door, but stopped and stared at the man who was standing at the corner of the house.
“Lonesome Lee!” he grunted. “Whatcha doin’ there?”
“Waitin’ for Jake Blue and Hagen to pull out,” replied Lonesome, and came up to Skelton.
“How’d you come, Lonesome?”
“Walked. I side-tracked for Jake and Blondy.”
“Well,” Skelton scratched his head and looked up at Sleepy and Hashknife, who were standing in the doorway. “Well, this seems kinda queer t’ me.”
Lonesome looked up at Hashknife.
“I reckon you’re the man I wanted to see. ’Member me havin’ a letter the other day?”
Hashknife nodded.
“I—I kinda wanted to know what was in it,” said Lonesome slowly. “I sobered up ’specially for——”
Came the whiningpluk!of a bullet and Lonesome Lee jerked back a half-step, threw one hand to his face and buckled forward at the knees.
Hashknife dove forward, grasped the old man in his arms and fairly fell through the doorway with him. Another bullet bit into the door-casing, and Skelton and Sleepy dove in behind Hashknife. Another bulletpingedin through the door and ricocheted off the cook-stove before Skelton kicked the door shut.
Hashknife picked Lonesome Lee off the floor and laid him on the bed. The old man’s face was a mass of gore and he was cursing wickedly, deliriously; fighting to get back to his feet.
“Like a chicken with its head cut plumb off!” gasped Sleepy.
“Lay still!” snapped Hashknife, dodging Lonesome’s kicking legs. “That bullet knocked, but didn’t come in.”
“Creased?” queried Sleepy anxiously, as he grasped Lonesome by the legs.
Lonesome ceased kicking, but his flow of profanity was undiminished. Skelton brought the water-bucket and a towel and washed the blood off the old man’s face. The bullet had cut a furrow from just above his right eye to a spot over his ear and, in the passing, it had flicked a notch in the top of the ear. The wound was superficial, but the shock was considerable.
He sat up and looked foolishly around, while Skelton mopped off the gore.
“Wh-what happened?” he croaked.
Hashknife examined the wound and turned quickly to Skelton.
“You patch him up, Bliz,” he said. “He’ll likely have a sore head, but that won’t hurt him. Me and Sleepy are goin’ to Caldwell.”
Hashknife was half-way out of the door at the finish of his statement and heading for the stable. Sleepy gawped for a moment and trotted after him. They saddled swiftly and galloped out to the Caldwell road.
“Whatcha goin’ to Caldwell for?” asked Sleepy, as they hit a level stretch and shook up their mounts.
“They’ll arrest us sure as ——, Hashknife.”
“Thasso?”
Hashknife spat out a half-burned cigaret and pulled his hat lower over his eyes.
“I’m plumb tired of bein’ shot at, Sleepy.”
It was about three miles to Caldwell, and they covered the distance in record speed. At the War-Bonnet hitch-rack they dismounted and went into the big saloon. There was no sign of Jake Blue or Blondy Hagen.
Windy, the bartender, gaped at ths sight of them and upset some glasses on the back-bar with his elbows.
“Seen Jake Blue lately?” asked Hashknife.
“Nope.”
“Where’s Spot Easton?”
“Dunno.”
Hashknife leaned on the bar and studied Windy closely.
“You don’t know very much, do you?”
“If I did,” said Windy slowly, “I wouldn’t be a bartender. I didn’t lie about not knowin’ where Spot Easton is, but Jake Blue and Blondy Hagen went through here a short time ago, headin’ for the 88.”
“Goin’ after help, eh?”
“Mm-m-m.”
Hashknife considered this. It was going to be very awkward if the sheriff brought the gang from the 88 outfit to help him serve the warrants.
“How many punchers on the 88?” he asked.
“Seven, I reckon.”
“That makes nine, countin’ Blue and Hagen. Odd number, ain’t it? Wish it was ten.”
“For gosh sake, why?” grunted Windy.
“I hate to fight odd numbers,” said Hashknife seriously. “Kinda hoodoos me.”
“Tryin’ to kid me?” asked Windy.
“If you think so, come with ’em. Didja hear about Lonesome Lee gettin’ killed?”
“Lonesome Lee! Whatcha mean?”
“Somebody shot him on Skelton’s porch a while ago.”
“Kill him dead?”
“Didja ever know a feller to get hit with a .30-30 and fail to grab a harp?”
“Whatcha know?” grunted Windy. “Who’d kill him?”
“Come on, Sleepy.”
Hashknife strode back to the door and headed for their horses. They rode swiftly back toward the Tombstone ranch, with Sleepy demanding to know what in —— they ever made the trip to Caldwell for, and what good it was going to do?
“Elimination and instruction, Sleepy,” replied Hashknife, as they dismounted at the Tombstone corral.
“I had an idea that Hagen and Blue might ’a’ stopped and took a shot at Lonesome Lee; but they wouldn’t ’a’ had time to circle back and still go through Caldwell much ahead of us. I was also kinda anxious to find out how many men Blue was goin’ to bring back with him.”
“—— of a lot of good that’ll do us,” complained Sleepy, “except to know that we died fightin’. I’m sure ready and willin’ to pull out of Lodge-Pole county.”
They found Lonesome and Skelton discussing cattle over their pipes. Lonesome was not much the worse for his wound. Skelton had used up every available rag on the ranch to check the bleeding, and Lonesome’s head looked like a turban.
“What kind of a bunch are workin’ on the 88?” asked Hashknife abruptly.
“What kind?” Lonesome cogitated deeply.
“Not much good, I reckon. None of my old gang are there.”
“Easton fired ’em, eh?”
Lonesome nodded slowly and wearily.
“I reckon so. He got a bunch from Arizona. I dunno anythin’ wrong about any of ’em, but I know I wouldn’t want that kind of punchers working for me. A feller by the name of Dell Blackwood is his foreman and he——”
“That’s a plenty,” interrupted Hashknife. “I know that horse-thief. Me and him worked on the Hashknife outfit and I know him from the belt both ways. Betcha he’s got ‘Holy Moses’ Herman workin’ for him.”
“There is a Herman,” nodded Lonesome. “Short feller, with a big nose.”
“That’s him!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Ought to ’a’ been hung fifteen years before he got old enough to wear long pants. Say, how much of the 88 does Easton own?”
“I dunno. He kinda took charge, and—and——”
“You mean he’s kept you drunk for a year or two and jist kinda nudged you out of everythin’. Shot your nerve all to —— with hooch, and hoodled you out of every thing you own.”
Lonesome stared down at the floor, but said nothing.
“Has he got a bill of sale from you?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Lonesome. “If he did, he got it from me when I was drunk.”
“And he could ’a’ got it from you any old time durin’ the last year or so,” declared Hashknife, “’cause you ain’t been sober in all that time.”
“What business is it of yours?” demanded Lonesome angrily. “It’s my ranch?”
“What about Jane Lee?”
Lonesome jerked upright and stared open-mouthed at Hashknife.
“Jane?” he croaked. “What—who——”
Lonesome Lee spluttered over his own words, his hand trembled wildly as he tried to grasp Hashknife.
“Set down!” snapped Hashknife. “She ain’t far from here, but I’m danged ’f she’s goin’ to see you in the shape you are now, old timer. She thinks you’re a dandy old dad, instead of a broken old wreck. She thinks you own the 88. You’re a —— of a nice specimen for a young lady to pick out for a dad, ain’tcha?”
Lonesome bowed his sore old head on his hands and wept, while he swore feelingly at himself.
“You ought t’ have a gizzard,” said Hashknife, “and then you could eat with the chickens.”
“I betcha,” sobbed Lonesome. “I got it all comin’ to me, young feller. Don’t talk soft on my account.”
“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll try and say somethin’ mean to yuh. Can’t remember givin’ Easton a bill of sale, eh?”
“No.”
Sleepy got up, and going over to a rear window, peered out, then drew back quickly.
“Here they come!” he said softly. “The whole —— works!”
Hashknife looked around quickly.
“Got a cellar, Skelton?”
“—— right I have!”
Skelton hopped across the floor and lifted his table away from a trap-door. This he raised.
“Git down in there, Lonesome,” ordered Hashknife, “and don’t make a noise;sabe? Don’t ask questions!”
Lonesome went down the short ladder, and the trap was closed and covered with the table, just as a crowd of men, led by Jake Blue, rode up to the front door.
Hashknife and Sleepy had closed the door as they came in, and now Skelton slipped the bar into place and picked up his shotgun.
“Come on,” whispered Hashknife. “We’ll go out the back window, Sleepy. Don’t make any resistance, Skelton. Put down the shotgun and act natural.”
He and Sleepy slid out the back window, and shut it behind them, just as some one knocked loudly on the front door.
They went cautiously around the house, walking sidewise, with their backs against the wall.
“’Bout a dozen of ’em,” warned Sleepy, but Hashknife gave his warning no heed.
They could hear Jake Blue questioning Skelton, and the murmur of other voices.
“Where’s the dead man?” It was Doc Clevis’ voice.
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” replied Skelton.
Hashknife peered around the corner and stepped out, with Sleepy beside him. Jake Blue and Doc Clevis were on the porch arguing through the open door with Skelton, while the rest of the men were still mounted. The nearest man to them was a grim-faced person, with a heavy red mustache. Just beyond him was a heavy-set cowboy, with an enormous nose.
“Horse-thieves from the Hashknife!” snorted Hashknife loudly.
Every one turned quickly, and just as quickly they realized their disadvantage. Hashknife was standing with his legs far apart, his right hand resting on his hip just over the top of his holstered gun, while Sleepy stood with one elbow braced against the house and his hand swaying over the butt of his Colt.
“Don’t move, Blue,” cautioned Hashknife. “You and Doc just hold that pose or the picture is spoiled.”
Hashknife did not seem to look at them as he spoke, but watched the two mounted men nearest him.
“Blackwood and Holy Moses,” grinned Hashknife.
Blackwood moistened his lips.
“You!” he grunted with a great effort. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Danged right you didn’t,” agreed Hashknife. “If you did, you and that elephantnosed horse-thief over there would ’a’ fogged for Canada.”
“Thasso?” retorted the big-nosed cowboy, and cleared his throat with great difficulty.
Hashknife appeared to size up the rest of the crowd.
“I dunno the rest of you, gentlemen, but you’re in danged bad comp’ny.”
“You two are under arrest,” declared Blue loudly, “and we want Lonesome Lee’s body.”
“You don’t need to watch these two,” stated Skelton from the doorway, indicating Blue and the doctor. Skelton had them covered with his double-barreled shot-gun.
“You’re under arrest, too!” wailed Blue nervously. “Better submit quietly if you know what’s good fer you.”
The big-nosed cowboy must have thought that the Sheriff’s discourse had drawn Hashknife’s attention, because he whirled quickly in his saddle.
Hashknife’s right hand flicked down and up, and Blackwood flung himself forward to be out of line with the bullet that hissed past him and thudded into the big-nosed one. The latter’s pistol discharged and broke a window. He jerked back, swayed sidewise and fell out of his saddle, while his horse whirled, kicked at the falling man, and trotted toward the gate.
“Oh, the —— fool!” complained Blackwood bitterly. “If he didn’t know Hashknife Hartley—Gawd!”
The shooting had unnerved Blackwood.
“You seen how it was done, didn’t you Blue?” asked Hashknife softly. “He went for his gun.”
“By ——!” swore Blue savagely. “Can’t ten of us take two men?”
“Hop to it,” said Hashknife. “Ain’t no reason why you can’t try it.”
“Count me out,” said Blackwood quickly. “I sure as —— ain’t lost neither of ’em.”
He turned his horse and rode straight toward the gate and the rest of the horsemen followed him.
“Come back here and get Holy Smoke!” snapped Hashknife.
Blackwood and two of the men dismounted, and one of them put the wounded man on his saddle and rode away with him.
Blue chewed savagely on his tobacco and stared at Doc Clevis, who seemed indifferent to it all.
“Arrestin’ folks ain’t in my line,” stated Doc, as if in self-defense. “I’m here to take charge of the body of Lonesome Lee.”
“What’s your line, Blue?” asked Hashknife, and the Lodge-Pole sheriff swore feelingly.
“If cussin’ showed ability, you’d be Secretary of War,” said Hashknife. “What’s all this about Lonesome Lee bein’ dead?”
“We-well!” snorted Doc Clevis wonderingly.
“He’s in there,” said Blue pointing into the house. “By ——, I’m goin’ t’ find out about things.”
He brushed past Skelton, who stepped aside at a nod from Hashknife, and they all went inside. Blue and the doctor looked around. The blood-stained blanket on the bed caught Blue’s eye, and he pounced on it quickly.
“Whose blood is that?” he asked triumphantly.
“You can have it, if you want it,” said Hashknife.
“What’sa idea of hidin’ the body?” demanded the doctor.
“Looks —— queer t’ me,” swore Blue meaningly. “Man gets shot and his body hid. You fellers think you can do things like that? Huh!”
“Mebbe he’s already buried,” suggested Hashknife. “Mebbe we dug a hole and buried him.”
Blue snorted in disgust and turned toward the door, as if to go outside, but whirled like a flash, gun in hand. Skelton, who was a trifle to one side, idly swinging the shot-gun in one hand, had seen Blue’s move toward his gun, and as Blue whirled, Skelton threw the heavy riot-gun straight at his head.
It was over in a second. The breech of the shot-gun crashed into Blue’s face, knocking him off his feet and tossing his pistol toward the ceiling, while the shotgun slammed into the wall and sent a handful of buckshot into the floor.
“Kerzowie!” whooped Hashknife.
Doc Clevis helped Blue to his feet and led him outside to his horse. Blue did not seem to have the slightest idea of what had happened to him, although his nose had shifted from its original mooring, giving him a peculiar lopsided, cock-eyed appearance. His right eye was also beginning to draw a dark mantle across his vision, but in spite of it all, Blue whistled through his teeth and obeyed Doc Clevis to the letter.
As they rode away Bliz Skelton shook his head and looked at Hashknife.
“It’s all right so far, but this is the finish, I reckon. I don’t like Blue and his gang, but they stand for the law. Everybody around here hates me, and it ain’t goin’ to stretch your imagination to see that Blue will have the whole country behind him. If I was you fellers I’d saddle up and pull m’ freight,muy pronto.”
“Not yet, Bliz. Shucks,” Hashknife looked solemnly at several heifers, which had drifted up past the barn and were grazing among the tombstones. “I’ve got business to attend to, don’tcha know it. There’s——”
Hashknife stopped and squinted at a spotted yearling, which had turned broadside to him, about fifty feet away.
“You brand on the right hip, Bliz?”
“Uh-huh.”
Hashknife stepped inside the house and took a coiled rope from a peg in the wall. Quickly fashioning a hondo and running out a loop, he roped the yearling, which bucked and bawled, kicking over a number of tombstones in its gyrations, while Sleepy and Hashknife dug their heels into the hard ground and held it firm.
“Mebbe I’m wrong,” panted Hashknife, “but I wish you’d take a squint at that brand, Bliz.”
Skelton approached the half-choked calf and squinted at the 88 on its hip.
“Nothin’ but an 88 calf,” he replied.
“Look closer,” urged Hashknife. “See if the front halves of the 88 ain’t newer burn than the other.”
“By ——, it is!” exploded Skelton foolishly. “Whatcha know about that? Who in —— done that?”
“Come on and let’s put the critter into the corral,” ordered Hashknife.
They led it into a gate and removed the rope while the rest of the calves scattered out through the main gate and into the hills.
“That’s where your calves have gone to,” said Hashknife seriously. “It’s a cinch to use a runnin’-iron and make 88 out of 33. Some danged cow-men ain’t got sense enough to make their brand fool-proof. How long has that outfit been knowed as the 88?”
Skelton masticated rapidly for a moment.
“Since Easton’s been in control, I betcha. I’ve hear the place spoke of as the old Cross-L outfit. That was likely Lonesome Lee’s brand. We’ll ask him.”
Lonesome Lee came painfully and cautiously out of his hiding-place and considered Skelton’s question.
“Easton bought that brand from a feller over near Ross Mountains. He drove in a hundred head of feeders which was wearin’ the 88, and he—aw, I’m danged if I know what he wanted to do it for, but he rebranded all of the Cross-L stock, and cancelled my registry.”
“And the 88 brand made it a cinch to steal all of Skelton’s stock,” said Hashknife. “All they had to do was to burn on the other half of the 88.”
He took a pencil and illustrated it to Lonesome.
“I—I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that,” wailed Lonesome. “My ——, I ain’t no thief!”
“No, I don’t reckon you are, Lonesome.”
“I’ll make it all up, Skelton,” blurted Lonesome. “I sure will. I’ll give him half of my own stock.”
“Have you got any stock?” asked Hashknife.
Lonesome stared at the three men and turned away.
“I dunno,” he said dully. “I ain’t got no idea how I stand. Mebbe I’ve got a thousand head of cows, and if I have, I’d give ’em all for just one drink of liquor.”
Skelton dug under his bunk and drew out a jug and handed it to Lonesome.
“I reckon you need a shot, Lonesome. If you’re goin’ to do a good job of quittin’, you’ve got to—what’sa matter?”
Lonesome turned and walked wearily to the door.
“I ain’t drinkin’ nothin’, Skelton—not today. I’ve had my share.”
Skelton shook his head wonderingly and replaced the jug, while Hashknife went to Lonesome and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“Everybody in Caldwell thinks you’re dead, Lonesome. Mind keepin’ out of sight for a while, and let ’em go on thinkin’ that?”
“What’s the idea?”
“It’s like this,” Hashknife wrinkled his nose away from the smoke of his cigaret. “In an honest court we could make Easton and his gang hard to catch, for rustlin’, but under the present conditions it’s only an excuse to kill somebody. If you can keep out of sight I’m bettin’ my hunch that we can wallop —— out of that gang. I ain’t no Sherlock Holmes, but I sure as —— have an idea.
“If you got an effect, you sure must ’a’ had a cause. Know what I mean?”
Hashknife pointed at the tombstones.
“There’s an effect, Lonesome.”
Lonesome nodded as if only half-understanding and looked at Hashknife.
“Where’s my daughter?”
“Never mind her, Lonesome. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, and dead men tell no tales. You’re supposed to be dead, you know.”
“All right. I ain’t goin’ to worry about her; but there’s a danged lot of things I don’t understand.”
“We’re all thataway, old-timer,” said Hashknife.
Nothing further happened that day at the Tombstone ranch. Everyone kept under cover for fear of another shot from the hills. Lonesome Lee asked no more questions. He seemed to be willing to let Hashknife engineer the whole thing.
It was about eleven o’clock the next morning when Mrs. Frosty Snow drove through the big gate and uprooted several of the tombstones in her mad haste.
Hashknife met her at the door, and she fairly exploded in her eagerness to tell the latest news.
“You fellers better hit the hills!” she panted. “You’re accused of kidnapin’ Lonesome Lee’s daughter and killin’ the old man, ’cause he tried to make you give her up!”
“Whatcha know about that?” Hashknife asked with a grunt.
“Shall I bring that girl up here?” asked Mrs. Snow. “It won’t take me——”
“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “Leave her stay where she is, Mrs. Snow. I kinda reckoned that somethin’ like this was due to happen, but it sort of makes me work faster. How soon do you reckon they’ll show up here?”
“Pretty soon. Jake Blue is organizin’ the whole thing, and he says he ain’t takin’ no chances on you gettin’ away. Goin’ to surround the place.”
“Jake’s got a lotta good ideas,” said Hashknife. “If he only turned his mind to honest endeavors he’d do well and last longer.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Snow dubiously, as she brushed the tumbled hair from her forehead and took a deep breath, “well, I’ve done my darndest. If you won’t run—don’t mind me. Maybe you don’t realize what they mean to do to you.”
“Ma’am, I sure thank you a lot. If you want to bring that girl up here in about an hour, it might be kinda opportune.”
“I’ll bring her.”
Mrs. Snow went back to her team and climbed up on the wagon-seat.
“You fellers hang onto your necks until I get back.”
As she whirled her team around and drove swiftly back down the road, Hashknife turned and grinned at Sleepy and Skelton.
“Whatcha goin’ to do?” blurted Skelton. “Produce the old man and the girl?”
“They’re comin’ in a bunch this time,” observed Sleepy, “and we can’t out-smart the whole danged country.”
Hashknife squinted out at the tombstones and turned quickly to Skelton.
“You got any wire, Skelton?”
“Wire? Yeah, I got a big spool of small wire—smaller than bailin’-wire, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s the stuff, Skelton. Sleepy, you find a pick and shovel.”
When the desired articles were produced, Hashknife dug four small holes; spading up the top soil on each for a space of about three feet square. He got four stakes, which he drove into the ground, and fastened a wire to each; piling the dirt to cover the stakes.
These spaded places were in a semi-circle in front of the porch, and about ten feet apart. Hashknife worked swiftly, whistling unmusically between his teeth, while Skelton and Sleepy watched him curiously. When the work was all finished, Hashknife took the wires back into the house and fastened them to a chair.
“Looney as a shepherd!” exploded Sleepy. “Can you beat that? Whatcha think you are—a medicine man?”
“Now, come on—fast!” grunted Hashknife. “Skelton, you stay here with Lonesome, and we’ll try and be back ahead of the procession.”
He turned and raced for the corral, still carrying the pick and shovel, while Sleepy, protesting at the top of his voice, followed. Swiftly they saddled. Hashknife mounted, holding the pick and shovel across the fork of his saddle in front of him.
“Headin’ for the graveyard, Sleepy!” he yelped.
“Y’betcha,” grunted Sleepy meaningly as he spurred after him.
Skelton stared open-mouthed as they galloped past the house and headed toward town. It was beyond him. He studied the four wires, shook his head, and going inside he squirted some oil into the old riot-gun. That done he sat down to wait.
At the entrance to the obliterated graveyard Hashknife drew up and vaulted off his horse.
“Go to the point above that first curve, Sleepy,” he ordered. “Glue your eye to the road, and when you see ’em comin’—yell like —— and come runnin’.”
“Aw-w-w!” protested Sleepy disgustedly, but Hashknife, with a shovel in one hand and the pick in the other, was already through the wire fence and running toward the creek.
Sleepy yanked his horse around and rode swiftly away. Hashknife’s actions left little doubt in Sleepy Stevens’ mind but that he was crazy. Still, Hashknife had never failed in an emergency—yet.
Hashknife stopped near the bank of the little creek and studied the ground. The graveyard had been most thoroughly obliterated, but luckily the destroyers had only harrowed the ground where the graves had been. Hashknife was able to find the spot where the gambler, “Faro,” had been buried. Barney Stout had said that Faro was buried between the other graves and the creek.
Hashknife took off his coat and began digging. It was hot work, hard work. The ground was rocky and progress was slow, and Hashknife had a horror of digging into a grave. The old pick was dull and the spring was missing in the shovel. A rocky reef impeded his progress and he was forced to dig around it.
Suddenly he dropped to his knees and began an examination which made his eyes sparkle. Every few moments his head would pop up like a prairie-dog, listening for Sleepy’s yell of warning.
Then it came—the long-drawn “Yee-hoo-o-o!” cowboy yell, and he saw Sleepy riding swiftly down the side of the hill toward the road.
Hashknife sprang to his feet and ran toward the fence, drawing on his coat as he ran. He was in his saddle when Sleepy galloped up.
“Everybody in the county comin’!” panted Sleepy. “And they’re sure comin’ in a hurry.”
“Quite an honor,” laughed Hashknife, as they spurred down the road. “First time we ever had ’em all callin’ on us, cowboy.”
“If you can see a joke in it, —— knows I can’t,” grumbled Sleepy. “A big audience ain’t goin’ to bring no joy to my soul when I’m standin’ on nothin’, and lookin’ up a rope.”
They stabled their horses and raced for the house. Skelton met them with an unspoken question, but Hashknife only laughed and shut the door softly on the four wires.
“Lemme do the talkin’,” he said, “and don’t start no gun-play until I bust loose.”
“Here they come!” exclaimed Sleepy, peering out of a rear window. “By cripes! They’re surroundin’ the place this time!”
“Wish ’em joy, Sleepy,” chuckled Hashknife, licking the edge of a fresh cigaret.
“Skelton, you keep that danged riot-gun under control, will you. There’s a lot of decent folks in that mob, and that thing scatters.”
Beyond a doubt this time Jake Blue was prepared to make good. He had at least fifty men in his posse, fifty hard-bitten cattlemen, who were determined to help him uphold the law. Easton’s tale of the kidnaping had been substantiated by the stable-man, at Gunsight.
The reported murder of Lonesome Lee did not stir them up, as did the kidnaping, but showed a clear incentive for the murder. Spot Easton had felt perfectly safe in elaborating his story considerably. He had spoken at length on the graveyard question, which was still warm in the minds of those who had friends or relatives buried there, and it appeared that Skelton was in danger of sharing punishment with Hashknife and Sleepy.
In fact, Easton and Blue had dwelt long upon the graveyard question, and there were some in the posse in whose minds this was of more interest than kidnaping and murder. Considerable liquor had also added to the general ill-feeling.
The Tombstone ranch-house door was closed, and there was no sign of life about the place. Blue detailed twelve men to circle the place and stop any chance of escape, while the rest of them, confident in their might, rode straight to the porch. Nearly every man held a rifle in his hands, ready for action, while Jake Blue swung onto the porch and approached the door.
Doc Clevis, Spot Easton and Blondy Hagen were in the main body of the mob, as were also Dell Blackwood and two of the boys from the 88. Blackwood’s horse was at the extreme outer edge of the crowd, and Blackwood’s eyes shifted around as he considered the safest way out. He knew Hashknife Hartley.
“Inside there!” yelled Blue, knocking on the door with the barrel of his rifle.
“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Blue!” exclaimed Hashknife’s voice. “Ain’tcha never goin’ to have any sense, sheriff?”
“What do you mean?” roared Blue nervously. He did not trust Hashknife.
“Look at them four wires which runs across the porch, will you?”
Blue glanced down at the small copper wires and his eyes traveled their length. The rest of the crowd took them into consideration. A horse was standing with both front feet on one of the mounds, and its rider yanked back on the reins, half-swinging the horse around.
“We was expectin’ you,” stated Hashknife, “and we got all set. Now, everybody hold quiet or my pardner will slam on the battery. You came down here to kill us and, if we’ve got to pass out, we’ll take a lot of company.”
He opened the door and came out on the porch. The assembled company relaxed. They felt they were sitting over a volcano; and men do not argue in a case of that kind.
Jake Blue backed away from Hashknife, masticating rapidly, and his eyes flashed from the wires to the interior of the house, as if trying to see if it was only a bluff.
“Well,” said Hashknife grimly, “we’re all together, it seems.”
“Do you think you can git away with this?”
Blue’s voice was thin as a high violin note. Some one in the crowd laughed. Blue’s nose resembled a beet, and one eye was almost swollen shut.
“I kinda thought I would,” said Hashknife as he looked around at the crowd.
“Well, well! There’s Mister Easton and Mister Hagen. And there’s my old friend, Doc Clevis. I was afraid they’d disappoint me. If there ain’t Dell Blackwood! My, my! The devil must be gittin’ a laugh out of this.”
Those indicated shifted nervously. They had no idea of what was to come next, but they were afraid to force the issue. Hashknife singled out a respectable-looking cowman and spoke directly to him:
“Pardner, you look honest to me. Talk a little, will you?”
“Sure will.”
The man cleared his throat.
“Mebbe you can explain this here kidnapin’ and murder charge. Lonesome Lee’s daughter was stolen and old Lonesome was murdered. Anyway, that’s how she’s been told to me.”
“You’re —— right!” snapped Blue.
Hashknife looked at Blue, steadily and closely. Blue shifted nervously. He liked to be the center of interest, but not at a time like this.
Hashknife backed against the wall near the door, where he could include Jake Blue in his sweep of the crowd.
“Folks, this is kind of a long tale I’m goin’ to tell you, and I ask you to set tight. One crooked move and my pardner, who is just inside the door, will jam down the little handle and we’ll migrate together.”
“We’re listenin’,” said one of the men.
“Why listen to him!” exploded Easton angrily. “We didn’t come down here to listen to a lot of —— lies, did we?”
“Stuff your fingers in your ears then!” retorted the cowboy who had pulled his horse off the spaded spot. “I sure as —— am willin’ to listen. I know dinnymite, y’betcha.”
“’Pears to me that the whole thing started over the graveyard,” observed Hashknife slowly. “Somebody played a joke on Skelton, and he returned the compliment.”
One of the men swore feelingly, and a growl came from several more. They agreed on this point, at least.
“It was a —— of a joke,” continued Hashknife, “but was it a joke?”
“Whatcha mean?” snapped Blue.
“Mebbe I’ll tell you.” Hashknife was quite at his ease. “Old Lonesome Lee owned the Cross-L outfit—and a big thirst—a very big thirst. Bein’ drunk most of the time made it plumb easy for another man to hoodle him out of the brand, which was changed to the 88—for a reason.”
“That’s a —— lie!” snorted Easton. “Everybody knows that I——”
“About that time,” interrupted Hashknife, “this old 33 outfit begins to dwindle. Their cows don’t bring in no calves. Everybody hates Skelton, and he knows —— well that nobody is goin’ to help him find out where they went to. Somebody tries to buy him out. I reckon there was quite a few tryin’ to buy him out. About that time he gets shot at a few times. ’Pears to me that it’s a —— bad shot, or shootin’ to scare him.”
“Now, wait a minute!” interposed Blue. “If Skelton was losin’ cows and gettin’ shot at, why didn’t he come to me about it?”
“You?” Hashknife squinted at Blue and shook his head. “Mebbe you was busy at that time, sheriff.”
The inference was plain, and it drew a mild laugh. The crowd was interested in Hashknife’s story, and did not relish an interruption.
“Lonesome Lee has a daughter,” said Hashknife. “She’s a danged nice-lookin’ girl, too. Lonesome was too drunk tosabethings much, and this girl writes him letters, which somebody else reads—and answers. There was a photygraph, too, I reckon. Pretty girls ain’t any too plentiful.
“Then somebody killed Quinin Quinn, and a poor, drunken Swede cook was jailed for it.”
“Yes, and if them guns hadn’t been stolen—” wailed Blue meaningly.
“Outside of that you feel good, don’tcha?” asked Hashknife seriously. “I dunno who killed Quinn, but I’ve sure got a hunch. Anyway, this girl was sent for and came to Gunsight, where she kinda dropped out of sight, leavin’ a certain party very peevish.”
Hashknife glanced at Easton, who was sitting very straight in his saddle.
“Then Lonesome Lee sobered up,” Hashknife continued, “and realized what a —— fool he had been. He comes down here to find out a few things, and somebody pot-shoots him at long range.”
“That’s your story,” interrupted Doc Clevis. “You never let us see the body, so how do we know how he got killed?”
“The man that shot him didn’t want him to find out anythin’.” Hashknife ignored Doc’s peevish statement.
“What’sa idea?” queried one of the cattlemen. “Who didn’t want him to?”
“I’m leadin’ up to that, pardner. The man who shot him was the man who was interested in this girl. He knew that Lonesome Lee was sober. He was the same man who bought the 88 outfit and changed Lonesome Lee’s brand to the 88. Didja ever figure that a 33 is easy to change to an 88 with a runnin’ iron?”
“You’re a —— liar!” yelped Easton trying to draw his gun. But the man next to him, fearful of the buried dynamite, stopped him.
“Now,” Hashknife swayed away from the wall and hooked a thumb over the top of his belt above his holster, “now, I’ll tell you where it all started. Hold still, Blue! You’re as close to your gun as you’ll ever get. Listen, you —— coyotes are to blame for this Lodge-Pole trouble!
“Skelton did not wipe out your graveyard. He had nothin’ to do with it. Accusin’ him of that was a —— good scheme to git rid of him. It’s a wonder that folks didn’t lynch him for it. It was a good joke to plant them tombstones in his front-yard. Sure it was. It gave a —— good reason for him to go out and wipe out the graveyard and to stop any more buryin’ there.”
Hashknife stopped for a moment. Jake Blue had gone gray as ashes, but his eyes flashed wickedly. Doc Clevis hunched in his saddle, his face set in lines of wonderment and fear.
“Skelton told me he didn’t do it,” continued Hashknife softly, “and I believed him. I knew that somebody wanted to force him away from this country. Them white tombstones”—Hashknife pointed at the yard—“were only an effect.
“The last man to be buried in that graveyard up the road was Faro, a gambler. Jake Blue, Doc Clevis and Spot Easton buried him, ’cause the other folks didn’t want him buried there.
“They dug his grave near the little creek. Right after that burial this graveyard joke was pulled off. Do you know why?”
Hashknife leaned closer to the crowd and his eyes flashed wickedly.
“No? You don’t? Well, I do! Two feet deep, where that gambler was buried, is the cropping of a ledge of quartz that is so danged rich in gold that it scared me. Jake Blue, Easton and Doc Clevis moved your graveyard for fear they might never own that gold. They killed Quinin Quinn, either because he knew too much, or to try and scare Skelton into sellin’ ’em the ranch!”
As Hashknife was finishing Skelton and Sleepy stepped out onto the porch beside him. Behind them came Lonesome Lee.
For a moment there was absolute silence, broken only by the slap of Jake Blue’s palm against the butt of his gun.
But, swiftly as he drew, Hashknife shaded him by a second and fired —— from his hip. Blue spun off the porch, splintering one of the porch-posts with his misdirected bullet.
Spot Easton had thrown himself sidewise and fired across his horse’s neck, but his horse threw its head wildly, and the bullet buzzed through the doorway—doing no damage. A second later one of the cowboys crashed his horse into Easton’s mount, knocking Easton from his saddle.
Doc Clevis, insane from the disclosures, and knowing what it would mean, drew a heavy pistol from under his coat and spurred straight at the porch, only to meet Skelton’s riot-gun at close range. He was literally blown out of his saddle.
From the ground, among the milling horses, Spot Easton shot wildly at Sleepy, who was churning up the dirt around Easton’s head with bullets. Hagen fired once, and his bullet ripped along Hashknife’s forearm just as Hashknife shot. The jar of the bullet threw Hashknife’s gun far enough aside to miss Hagen but caught his horse, which whirled wildly, unseating its rider. Hagen’s foot hung in the stirrup.
Bucking and kicking, the bronco whirled into the tangle of tombstones where Hagen fell free. Easton’s gun was empty and he tried to fight his way out of the milling horses, but Sleepy dove after him and, locked together, they rolled into the open.
Dell Blackwood forced his horse to the porch and held up his hands.
“I’m out of it,” he yelled. “I’m admittin’ that I stole some 33 calves for Easton, but I never shot nobody.”
He tossed his reins to the ground and slid out of his saddle.
Came the rattle of a wagon, and Mrs. Frosty Snow and Jane drove into the yard. Two cowboys helped Sleepy rope Spot Easton, and then all eyes turned to the two women in the wagon.
“Lonesome Lee, here’s yore daughter!” called Mrs. Snow.
Lonesome went slowly out to the wagon to meet Jane and held up his arms to her. The crowd watched them silently.
“I been waitin’ for you, Jane,” said Lonesome slowly as she climbed down over the wheel.
He held her in his arms for a moment and turned to the crowd.
“Hashknife, I want you to meet my daughter; you and Sleepy Stevens.”
“Why, I know them!” exclaimed Jane. “They ——”
“Know us?” grinned Sleepy. “My ——, I sung all night to her once.”
A grizzled cowman leaned over the shoulder of his horse and said to Hashknife—
“You can prove all the things you said?”
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. “I sure can.”
“What about him?”
The man pointed at Blackwood, who stood beside the porch, guarded by another cowboy.
“Him?” Hashknife squinted at Blackwood seriously. “Pardner, I—I dunno. He kept out of this. He admits that he mis-branded calves for Easton, and we could likely send him—” Hashknife shook his head slowly. “Lookin’ at it from a cold-blooded angle, suppose we give him his horse and tell him to git to —— out of here.”
“But he’s a rustler!” exclaimed another cowman.
“That’s a fact,” nodded Hashknife. “That sure is a fact. He admits it, don’t he?”
Hashknife looked around at his listeners.
“How many of us would admit the truth?”
Somewhere in the crowd a man laughed and smiles began to appear. Hashknife had won his point. He turned to Blackwood, who could scarcely believe his ears.
“Blackwood, you’re free to drift. I ain’t preachin’ to you, but kinda remember what might ’a’ happened.”
“You mean—” Blackwood licked his dry lips. “You mean, I’m free to—go?”
“You’ve got good ears, old-timer.”
Blackwood swung into his saddle, looked at Hashknife for several moments as though wanting to say something, but was unable to begin. Then as he turned slowly and rode out of the yard, unbelieving that any man or men could be so generous.
The cattlemen roped Easton to a horse, picked up Doc Clevis and Jake Blue, and strung out in a long cavalcade toward town.
“What happened here?” asked Jane wonderingly.
“Well, ma’am,” said Hashknife slowly, looking back at the tumbled tombstones, “you see, a front-yard ain’t no place for a cemetery, so we held a meetin’ today to start a new one some’ers else.”
“And that ain’t such a big lie, at that,” said Mrs. Frosty Snow slowly. Then to Lonesome and Jane, she said:
“Pile in here and go back to the ranch for supper with me. I hope that danged Swede cook don’t take the things to heart that I told him today, ’cause I need him for one more meal. You fellers better come along, too, ’cause I want you to tell me all about it.”
“Please do,” Jane pleaded. “Perhaps Mr. Stevens will sing for us.”
Mrs. Frosty Snow turned the team around and headed for the gate, while Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton stood together and watched them disappear around the bend. Hashknife went over to the porch and kicked loose the pegs and broken wires.
“Do we go over to Snow’s to supper?” asked Sleepy.
“Uh-huh,” grunted Hashknife. “I’d like to get used to Jane Lee, ’cause she’s sure as —— got a wide streak of humor in her system. You goin’, Skelton?”
“After what you’ve done for me? My ——, I’d even do a little singin’ m’self, Hashknife.”
“Thassall right,” said Hashknife hastily as he wound a handkerchief around his scored forearm, where Hagen’s bullet had left its mark.
“Your appreciation is accepted—but don’t sing. There’s such a thing as carryin’ humor to excess, Skelton.”
Skelton grinned widely and put his hand on Hashknife’s shoulder.
“Cowboy, you shore made history in Lodge-Pole County today, and jist t’ show you how much I appreciates it, I’m splittin’ the 33 into three parts right now. From this here date, me and you and Sleepy own this place. No arguments a-tall—no sir. She ain’t worth a —— of a lot for cows, but if there’s a gold mine—anyway, we’re pardners; the three of us.”
Hashknife looked closely at the old man and at Sleepy, who was busily rolling a cigaret. It was very quiet now. A string of dusty-looking cattle were coming down past the corner of the ranch-house fence, heading for the creek.
A magpie flew past the house, swerved sharply at sight of the three men, and perched on a corner of the corral, scolding earnestly. Fleecy clouds flecked the blue sky beyond the timbered ridges; from the hillside came the whistling bark of a ground-squirrel; down in the willows a cow bawled softly for her calf.
Hashknife turned slowly and took a deep breath, as he said—
“Whatcha say t’ havin’ a song by the Tombstone trio?”