“He admitted his guilt, sheriff. Regardless of the money end of the proposition, I demand his arrest. I’m not interested in the financial end of the thing, anyway. He threatened me in my own office, and I have a witness. The sooner he’s behind the bars the better it will be for all of us.”
“Well,” said Slim sadly, “I reckon there ain’t nothin’ else for me to do.”
Jim Langley, Jess Fohl, and Roper Briggs had joined old Rance and Chuckwalla at the Red Arrow bar. Rance was getting drunkenly boastful.
“I’ve got ’em all fooled,” he told Langley. “If they put me in jail, I’ll never tell where the stuff is cached; sabe? Nossir, I’ll never tell. Fill ’em up. Hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars. Sixty-seven thousand in jewlry and diamonds. Whooee-e-e! And I won’t tell anybody where it is.”
“You’re an old fool,” said Chuckwalla.
“F’r not tellin’?”
“For talkin’ about it.”
Fifteen minutes later, when Slim Caldwell arrested Rance, the old man stared drunkenly at him and then tried to pull his gun. It was little trouble for Slim to take the gun away from him and start him toward the jail. Chuckwalla leaned against the bar, talking to himself, trying to understand what had taken place.
He finally got it straight in his mind, and the knowledge that Rance McCoy was in jail sobered him up. He got his legs to functioning fairly well and headed for the office, where he found the sheriff’s force, prosecuting attorney, Wells Fargo representative, Hashknife, and Sleepy.
“I’ve come to git him,” stated Chuckwalla, and then added seriously, “And I git what I aim to git, gents.”
“You better go home, Chuckwalla,” advised Slim kindly.
“And leave Rance in jail?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, you’re a fool if yuh think so, Slim.”
“Well, yuh can’t get him out,” declared Slim.
“Thasso?” Chuckwalla almost jerked out one side of his mustache. “Think I can’t, eh? I’ll show yuh! Betcha forty dollars I do git him out. I’ll take him out if I have to dinnymite the dam’ jail. Don’t git me mean, gents.”
“Go on home and shut up,” advised Slim.
Hashknife took Chuckwalla by the arm and led him away, trying to explain that nothing could be done for Rance just now.
“But he never held up no train,” wailed Chuckwalla. “Rance ain’t that kind.”
“Admits it, don’t he?”
“Yea-a-a-ah! Old fool! Oh, I dunno what to do.”
“You better go home and think it over, Chuckwalla.”
“Mebby I better. Say, they’ll take care of him, won’t they?”
“Fine.”
“Uh-huh. But I’m goin’ to git him out, jist the same.”
Chuckwalla managed to mount his horse, and Hashknife gave him the lead-rope to Rance’s mount, explaining that there was no use of keeping the horse in town.
“You tell that Slim Caldwell that I’m comin’ back,” said Chuckwalla. “I’m a man of m’ word, by God.”
Jim Langley and his two men were at the office when Hashknife returned, and there was considerable speculation over what Chuckwalla Ike might do.
“He’s a tough old rooster,” laughed Langley. “Yuh never can tell about his kind.”
“He won’t do anythin’,” declared Slim. “And old Rance won’t never tell anything. Yuh may convict him, Merkle, but you’ll never find that money. It’s a big mistake, arrestin’ him, anyway.”
“That may be; but I’ll take the chance. What else can I do?”
Later on in the day Butch Reimer ran into Slim, and they discussed the arrest of Rance McCoy.
“I hope yuh didn’t think I was tryin’ to block the wheels of justice when I didn’t identify that horse,” said Butch.
“It was all right, under the circumstances,” said Slim. “I kinda wondered, after the horse had been identified.”
“Hartley got kinda salty, didn’t he?”
“Mebby. Yuh see, it was his horse, Butch.”
“Yeah, I know it was. But don’t yuh know, he made me a little bit sore. He’s kinda inclined to be cocky, ain’t he, Slim?”
“I don’t think so. And it might be worth yore while to know that he’s a bad jigger to get funny with, Butch.”
“Yeah? How do you know all this? Did he tell yuh?”
Slim shook his head quickly.
“He’d be the last one to do that, Butch. I merely know these things from his reputation.”
“Uh-huh. Got a reputation, eh? Gun-man?”
“Nope; not exactly. But he’s shore sent a lot of gun-men down the trail. Didja notice them gray eyes of his? He looks plumb through yuh. If he ever asks yuh a question yuh better give him a square answer, Butch. Pity Kid Glover, if he ever comes back here again.”
“I guess that’s right,” nodded Butch. “Do yuh reckon old Rance will confess?”
“No! All hell can’t make him confess. And I don’t see how Merkle can convict him on the evidence. There’s not a thing, except that dead horse; and that ain’t no real evidence. Of course, I don’t know how the jury will look upon the fact that the saddle was recovered and the brands stripped off the dead horse. But they’ll never get that money back—not a bit of it.”
“I don’t think they ever will,” agreed Butch.
That night Jim Parker seemed unusually serious during supper. Lila noticed that he looked often at her, and there was a gloomy expression in his eyes. Lila knew Rance McCoy had been arrested, and she wondered if this had anything to do with Jim Parker’s demeanor.
Mrs. Parker noticed it too, and finally she asked him if he felt well.
“Well enough, mother,” he said slowly. “We had a meeting this afternoon—the school trustees.”
Lila lifted her head quickly and Jim Parker was looking at her.
“It was two to one,” he said heavily. “I done the best I could, Lila, but they voted me down. I hated to have to tell yuh, but they ask yuh to quit teachin’.”
“To quit teaching my school?” said Lila, hardly believing her own ears.
Jim Parker nodded sadly.
“That’s it, Lila.”
“The very idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Parker. “Why, Jim?”
Parker shook his head.
“It was the things they’ve heard,” he said. “They called Angel in on it. He repeated what was in that letter. That made no difference to me—but they’re kinda funny. And after Rance was arrested—they thought they’d change.”
“That letter about my—my father and mother?” asked Lila, a catch in her voice.
“Yeah!” snorted Parker. “One of them old fools talked about heredity. What does he know about it? Oh, I did the best I could, Lila. You can stay right here and live with us until yuh know what yuh want to do. We’d sure like to have yuh, Lila.”
“Heredity?” whispered Lila. “He meant that—my mother was insane. Oh, that’s what he meant.”
“Don’t you believe it, honey,” assured Mrs. Parker warmly. “Nothin’ to it. I’d like to talk to them trustees.”
I talked to ’em,” said Parker. “They’re going to ask me to resign from the board. I’ll be glad to, and I told ’em so.”
Lila left the table and went to her room. Jim Parker filled his pipe moodily, and while Mrs. Parker was clearing off the table Slim Caldwell came. He had talked with one of the trustees about Lila, and Slim was mad.
Lila came down the stairs. Slim was almost incoherent in his wrath, and afraid Lila would blame him for the arrest of Rance McCoy.
“I staved it off as long as I could. I didn’t want to do it, if only for your sake,” he told her. “Merkle demanded his arrest, and there wasn’t anythin’ I could do, Lila. Right now I’m lookin’ for Angel. He talked with them trustees. You heard him, Jim. He didn’t need to say the things he did. The things old Rance has done for the fool!”
“He’s his son,” said Lila wearily.
“And blood is thicker than water,” quoted Parker.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Lila—“I mean, about me. I’m sorry for him. I don’t believe he ever robbed anybody.”
“He practically confessed it,” sighed Slim. “Told Hale he’d never put a cent of it in the bank.”
“What does he have to say now?” asked Parker.
“Nothin’. Oh, he’s sober now. He realizes what he’s up against. Merkle tried to get him to talk, and he laughed at Merkle when Merkle told him he’d let him off easy if he told where the money was cached. Then he got mad and cursed Merkle up one side and down the other.”
“Has Angel been down to see him?” asked Mrs. Parker.
“No. Oh, he probably will—if I let him. Mebby I won’t. No use rubbin’ it in on the old man. He’ll have his hearing in a few days, and they’ll bind him over to the next term of court. Merkle says he’ll convict Rance.”
“They tell me that old Chuckwalla was sore,” said Parker.
“I guess he was! Swears he’ll dynamite the jail.”
“Well, look out for him, Slim,” seriously. “He’s capable of doing just that thing. What’s this I hear about Kid Glover stealing Hartley’s horse in Welcome?”
“It’s true, Jim. The Kid left the Half-Box R and traded horses in Welcome. Nobody knows where he is now.”
“Does Hartley expect him back?”
Slim smiled over the manufacture of a cigarette.
“Nobody knows, Jim. That tall cowboy listens all the time, and when he talks it’s to ask questions. Pretty much of a human being, that Hashknife Hartley. Thinks a lot. Thinks about everything, I reckon. Well, I’ve got to be gettin’ back, folks. I was so danged mad, I had to come over and blow off steam.”
“Thank you, Slim,” said Lila, trying to smile. “It was something that couldn’t be avoided. We’ll all live through it. It was hard to believe, at first, but now it doesn’t matter so much.”
“That’s a good way to look at it,” said Slim. “You know how I feel about it. If I had a school in my pocket, it’d be yours, Lila.”
“And I appreciate it, Slim. Please don’t tell Rance McCoy about it. He has troubles enough of his own now.”
“I won’t tell him, Lila. Be good, folks.”
It was nearly dark when Slim opened the gate. A man was coming toward him, and he looked up to see Angel McCoy, evidently coming to the Parker home. Neither of them spoke. Angel reached for the latch of the gate, but Slim swayed in front of him. And without any preliminary motions of any kind, Slim smashed Angel square on the point of the chin with his right fist.
It was a knock-out punch, perfectly timed and executed. Angel simply folded up and went sprawling in the dust. Slim looked at him for several moments, turned and went on toward his office, trying to rub some feeling back into his right knuckles.
Angel was “out” for more than a minute. He finally got to his feet, braced himself against the fence, and waited for his mind to clear. He had intended having a talk with Lila, but just now his jaw was half-paralyzed and there was a chunk of skin missing from his closely shaven chin. As soon as his legs would permit of safe locomotion, he went back toward the main street.
It was about nine o’clock when Chuckwalla Ike came back to Red Arrow. He was cold sober and wanted to see Rance McCoy, but Scotty McKay, alone in the office, refused his request.
“I have an or-rder to let no one see him,” said Scotty. “Ye might come tomorrow, Chuckwalla.”
“Yeah, I might,” agreed Chuckwalla, and went away. He had a drink at the Red Arrow, and it was there that he learned that Lila had been asked to resign as teacher of the Red Arrow school.
It took Chuckwalla quite a while to digest this information, because of the fact that the bartender tried to explain heredity, which neither he nor Chuckwalla knew anything about.
“Anyway,” declared the drink-dispenser, “I hear them trustees decided that she wasn’t the woman they wanted to teach the kids; so they fired her.”
“I dunno what her ancestors have got to do with her learnin’ the kids,” said Chuckwalla sadly.
“Me neither. Have another drink?”
“I don’t guess I will, pardner. See yuh later.”
He left the Red Arrow and walked past a restaurant, where he saw Slim, Chuck, Hashknife, and Sleepy busily engaged in eating their supper. For several moments Chuckwalla debated with himself whether to go in and talk with them or not. He finally decided not to, and went on.
For the first time since he had been in Red Arrow Hashknife talked at great length with Slim Caldwell about the robbery. There seemed little doubt that old Rance McCoy had pulled the job, but there were certain phases of the case that made Hashknife doubt.
Slim told him all about it, and answered questions until he became more interested himself.
“I dunno what yuh expect to learn,” he declared, when Hashknife wanted all the details of the gambling incidents of the night of the robbery.
Slim went back several days previous to the robbery and told of old Rance losing twenty-five hundred dollars in the Eagle.
“You don’t think Angel had any hand in it, do yuh?” asked Slim.
“I’d hate to say that. But isn’t Angel the one who needed the money? Went broke, didn’t he?”
“And he’s still broke, Hashknife.”
“Are yuh sure?”
“Well, he closed up his place.”
“And old Rance borrowed money from the bank.”
“Sure. But couldn’t that have been a bluff? Why, we all know he drew seventy-five hundred from the bank; and he busted the Eagle. Don’t tell me he’s broke.”
“Don’t look as though he would be. You say the express messenger picked up his gun and emptied it at the robber after the robber left the car?”
“Yeah. Of course, he was shootin’ wild in the dark.”
“And one of his bullets killed the horse, eh? That meant that the robber would have to walk.”
“It ain’t over two miles to the Circle Spade ranch. We were over there that mornin’, and old Rance had a big bump on his head. Looks as though a horse might have spilled him. He didn’t have much to say. We didn’t mention the horse to him, but it looks as though him and Chuckwalla beat it right down there and tried to destroy the evidence. Anyway, somebody was there ahead of Scotty, and danged near shot him. They held him off until they skinned out the brand and got away with the saddle.”
“Looked as though there had been two men, eh?”
“Prob’ly was.”
“How about Chuckwalla the night of the robbery?”
“Pretty drunk; too drunk to do anything.”
They finished their meal and wandered down to the Red Arrow. Business was not very brisk.
“Old Chuckwalla was here a while ago,” offered the bartender.
“Sober?” asked Slim.
“So damned sober he refused a second drink.”
“Have anythin’ to say about Rance?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Where’d he go from here?”
“Dunno that either.”
They sat down at one of the tables and had a smoke. Hashknife noticed that Slim’s right hand was bruised and swollen a little, and that Slim kept it concealed as much as possible.
Later on they sauntered back to the office, which was in darkness.
“Scotty must ’a’ gone to bed,” said Chuck.
“He’s shore a sleepy son-of-a-gun.”
The door was unlocked. They walked in and Slim headed for the table, intending to light the lamp, when he tripped and fell sprawling across the floor.
“Why don’tcha pick up yore feet?” laughed Chuck.
“Light the lamp!” snorted Slim, picking himself off the floor. “By God, I fell over somebody!”
Hashknife quickly scratched a match and stepped over to the table, where he lighted the oil lamp. Stretched out on the floor, between the table and the door, was Scotty McKay, with blood oozing from a bruise on his head.
As they stared at him he groaned and tried to lift himself up. Quickly they placed him on a cot, and Slim ran to the jail door, which was sagging open. The cell was empty—Rance McCoy was gone.
Slim came back and looked at Scotty, who was staring blankly at them and trying to feel of his head.
“Rance is gone,” said Slim. “How bad are yuh hurt, Scotty?”
“What in hell happened?” asked Scotty painfully.
“What do you know?” asked Slim.
Scotty looked blankly around, shaking his head.
“I dunno, Slim. I’m all blood! Who hit me?”
“There’s some whiskey in my desk, Chuck,” said Slim.
Chuck got the bottle and gave Scotty a big drink. It brightened him up quickly.
“I was at the desk,” he told them. “There was a noise outside near the door, so I went to see what it was. And then somethin’ hit me, I guess. Gimme another dr-r-ink, Chuck.”
Slim sighed and looked inquiringly at Hashknife, who was sitting on a corner of the desk, squinting thoughtfully.
“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?”
Hashknife shrugged his shoulders.
“Chuckwalla Ike!” exclaimed Chuck. “By God, he kept his word!”
“Looks like it,” agreed Slim slowly. “You better go with Scotty to the doctor’s place and get that head all fixed up. Can yuh walk, Scotty?”
“I don’t walk on me head,” retorted Scotty. “I’ll be all right, Slim. I might have it looked into, though.”
“Judgin’ from your looks, it’ll be easy to look into,” grinned Chuck. “C’mon, old Painted Face.”
“And when yuh come back, stick around the office,” ordered Slim. “I’m goin’ out to the Circle Spade.”
“And we’ll go along,” said Hashknife, after the two men had departed. “This makes me kinda curious.”
“I hoped you’d go, Hashknife. I’m curious too.”
“What do you think of it, Sleepy?” asked Hashknife, as they saddled their horses.
“Fine!” grunted Sleepy. “This is action, cowboy. When they start knockin’ officers down and bustin’ jail, I’m feelin’ good.”
They mounted their horses and rode out to the Circle Spade. There was a light in the bunk-house, but none in the ranch-house. They dismounted and sneaked up to the bunk-house window, where they looked in and saw Monty Adams and Steve Winchell, humped over at a table, playing seven-up.
They walked back to the corral, where they sat down and debated what to do. Slim did not want to go to the ranch-house and make a search. It might be productive of a lot of trouble, especially at night.
And as they sat there in the shelter of the corral fence, a horse and rider came to the ranch, dismounted near them, turned the horse into the corral, carried the saddle to the stable, and then went to the ranch-house. It was Chuckwalla Ike. He lighted a lamp in the living-room and took it upstairs with him.
“Foxy old devil!” snorted Slim. “He was too wise to bring Rance out here. Now where do yuh suppose he took him? Not to the Half-Box R, nor to the JML. He wouldn’t have had time to go to the JML. I’ll bet he stocked a hide-out in the hills.”
“No use lookin’ for him at night,” said Sleepy. “We might as well go back to town and wait for daylight.”
“Yeah; and he won’t be so easy to take ag’in,” complained Slim. “Old Rance is a danged fine shot, and he knows every inch of this country.”
They went back to their horses and rode to town. Scotty was in bed at the office, suffering quite a lot with his injured head, in which the doctor had taken three stitches. It meant that several days would elapse before Scotty would be wearing a hat again.
A search of the office showed that the keys to the main door of the jail and to the cell were missing. Slim had kept them in a drawer in his desk. Luckily Slim had one set of duplicates.
“It wasn’t done by a stranger,” smiled Hashknife. “The man who pulled that job knew where to find the keys.”
“No; it was done by a friend, Hashknife,” laughed Chuck. “A friend with a lot of cold nerve.”
“And honest too,” laughed Slim. “He kept his word.”
They were out again at daylight. Slim’s idea was to keep a sharp watch on Chuckwalla. He believed that sooner or later Chuckwalla would go to old Rance. But Slim knew old Chuckwalla would be very careful, especially if he had any idea that the officers suspected him.
In order to look over considerable territory, in case old Rance should be hiding out in the country between the Circle Spade and the Half-Box R, Hashknife and Chuck headed straight for the Half-Box R, while Slim and Sleepy took the road to the Circle Spade.
Chuck knew of an old place, half shack, half dugout, hidden away in the hills between the two ranches. It had at one time been the winter home of a wolfer.
“Just stumbled onto it one day,” explained Chuck. “Yuh never could find it, unless yuh knowed just where to look. Old Rance might know where it is, and it would shore make a dinger of a hide-out.”
They came to the rickety old bridge across the river, which was barely wide enough for two riders abreast. On the left-hand side of the bridge, about a quarter of the way across, lay a battered sombrero. Hashknife swung down and picked it up.
It was not a hat that would ordinarily be discarded, being a black Stetson, more trampled than worn. There was no name in it, except that of the maker. Chuck looked it over critically.
“Lotsa black Stetsons wore around here,” he said. “Mebby some of Butch Reimer’s punchers got drunk and lost it.”
Hashknife dismounted and stepped over to the railing. Thirty feet below him was a dry-wash, with here and there a clump of stunted bushes, piles of drift. Farther to the right was the river, only about sixty feet across at this time of the year.
Suddenly Hashknife leaned forward, looking almost directly down. Lying against one of the old pilings, half-hidden in a tangle of brush and drift, was the body of a man. Hashknife called Chuck, and together they looked down at it.
From that distance it was impossible to identify him, as he was partly covered by the bushes. They led their horses back to the end of the bridge and tied them to a tree, after which they worked their way down to the river level.
Chuck did not like dead men, so he allowed Hashknife to drag the body out of the tangle. It was Billy DuMond. A round blue hole in the center of his forehead showed them that his death had been no accident. Chuck squatted down on his haunches and tore up several cigarette-papers in trying to roll a cigarette.
“Hit square between the eyes,” he marveled. “Somebody around here is a damned good shot.”
Chuck didn’t pay much attention to Hashknife, who was examining the body, and he did not notice that Hashknife had taken some papers from DuMond’s pocket. There were three envelopes, containing letters, which had evidently been carried a long time, and a folded sheet of paper.
Hashknife walked farther along under the bridge, as though searching for something more, and unfolded the sheet of paper. It was an inky scrawl, which read:
I.O.U. Seventy-eight hundred dollars.($7800.00)Angel McCoy
I.O.U. Seventy-eight hundred dollars.
($7800.00)
Angel McCoy
Hashknife stuffed the paper in his pocket and walked back to Chuck.
“What do yuh reckon we better do about this body?” he asked.
“Leave it here,” said Chuck quickly. “Let Slim and the coroner handle it.”
“Do yuh think we better ride down and tell Reimer?”
“Yeah, I s’pose we had. And then we can cut across the country and tell Slim. Who do yuh reckon killed old DuMond, Hashknife?”
“Somebody did a good job of it, Chuck. Who wanted to kill him off?”
“Rance McCoy.”
“I heard about that. How did he stand with Angel?”
“Oh, all right, I guess. They seemed to be friendly. Yuh see, it was DuMond who told Angel about Lila not bein’ Rance’s daughter. I reckon that’s what made Rance sore at DuMond. Yuh heard about Lila losin’ her job, didn’t yuh?”
“Yeah. That was a shame.”
They went back to their horses and rode to the Half-Box R, where they found Butch Reimer and Dell Blackwell saddling their horses.
“Billy DuMond is dead!” blurted Chuck, without any preliminary.
Butch stared at him curiously.
“Dead?”
“Deader’n hell,” forcibly, if inelegantly.
Butch dropped his latigo and came over to them. DuMond had been with Butch Reimer a long time.
“Yuh might tell me about it, Chuck,” said Reimer, looking from Chuck to Hashknife.
Chuck told them how they had found DuMond, and that he had been shot squarely between the eyes. Butch was visibly affected, and it seemed to Hashknife that there was fear in his eyes, which shifted from face to face.
“If old Rance McCoy wasn’t in jail——” he said, breaking off his sentence meaningly.
“Well, he ain’t,” said Chuck. “Somebody helped him break jail last night. They popped Scotty over the head.”
Butch snorted disgustedly and hooked his thumbs over his belt.
“That accounts for it. Yuh won’t have to look far for the man who killed Billy DuMond.”
“Is Rance McCoy a murderer?” asked Hashknife.
“What do yuh mean, Hartley?”
“DuMond was murdered. His gun is still in the holster. The man who shot him shoved the gun almost against DuMond’s head. And then he threw the body over the side of the bridge, hoping nobody would find it. But they made the mistake of leaving DuMond’s hat on the bridge. Probably overlooked it in the dark.”
Hashknife reached down inside his chaps and drew out the black Stetson, which he handed to Reimer. Hashknife was watching Reimer closely, and he saw his crooked lips twitch at sight of the hat.
Slowly he straightened it out in his two hands. Blackwell merely glanced at it. Butch cleared his throat softly.
“That’s old Billy’s hat,” he said softly. “Poor old Bill.”
“We better keep it,” said Hashknife. “The sheriff will want to keep it, I suppose.”
“What good is it to him?” queried Butch.
“Oh, merely a part of DuMond’s personal effects. If yuh want it, Slim will probably give it to yuh.”
“Well, all right,” grudgingly. “Where’s Slim?”
“Lookin’ for Rance McCoy,” replied Chuck.
“Same here,” grunted Butch. “You tell Slim my gang are at his disposal. Jist as sure as hell, old Rance killed Billy DuMond. Do you think he’s at the Circle Spade?”
“Not a chance. He’s too smart for that. If you fellers are goin’ to town, don’t touch the body. We had to drag it out where we could look it over. As soon as we get hold of Slim, we’ll have it taken to town.”
Butch promised to keep away from it, and Hashknife rode away with Chuck, heading across the hills toward the Circle Spade. Hashknife was grinning to himself, and Chuck sensed the fact that Hashknife was amused.
“What’s funny about it, Hashknife?”
“I was just laughin’ to myself about Reimer wantin’ to keep DuMond’s hat as a souvenir.”
“What’s funny about it?”
“The fact that Reimer recognized it, Chuck.”
“Well, he ought to recognize DuMond’s hat, hadn’t he?”
“Sure.”
“Well, what’s so funny about it?”
“Nothin’ much, except that DuMond’s head is not less than a seven and three-eighths, and this black hat is a six and seven-eighths.”
“Yuh mean it ain’t DuMond’s hat?”
“Not unless that bullet swelled his head a lot.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exploded Chuck admiringly. “Slim was tellin’ me you was smart. Who’d ever think of comparin’ that hat with DuMond’s head? I’ll betcha Butch Reimer thinks it’s DuMond’s hat. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“Anyway, he got kinda sentimental over it,” grinned Hashknife. “Whereabouts is that dugout yuh mentioned?”
“Oh, that’s north of us now. I thought we better find Slim first and tell him about DuMond.”
“I guess so. Is that dead horse much out of our way?”
“Not much. We cross the railroad over here at Curlew Spur, and then we can foller up to where the horse is.”
Fifteen minutes later they dismounted and looked at what was left of the Circle Spade horse. Coyotes and magpies had practically cleaned the bones of all flesh. Hashknife examined the skull of the animal, which was still covered with skin. The bullet had penetrated the animal’s brain, and had gone through the skull. Hashknife examined the bullet-hole thoughtfully, and then walked to the fence and looked down at the tracks, which were at least twenty feet lower than where they stood.
“Make anythin’ of it?” asked Chuck curiously. He was beginning to respect Hashknife’s powers of observation.
“Sometimes yuh can make a mountain out of a molehill, Chuck,” replied Hashknife gravely. “Mebby we better go and find Slim.”
Slim had told them where to find him and Sleepy, and they were there, sitting in the shade of a stunted cottonwood, from where they had kept an eye on the Circle Spade ranch-house.
“Drawed a blank so far,” grinned Slim. “Saw Monty and Steve ride away; but Chuckwalla ain’t stirred.”
“You tell ’em, Hashknife,” said Chuck, as they dismounted.
Hashknife told Slim how they had discovered the body of Billy DuMond beneath the bridge, and the sheriff’s eyes widened. He had known Billy DuMond a long time.
“Rance McCoy!” he gasped. “He’s been gunnin’ for DuMond. By God, he got loose, waited for Billy on that old bridge—and nailed him.”
“Tell ’em about that hat,” urged Chuck.
Hashknife grinned as he related the conversation between himself and Butch. He gave Slim the hat. They looked it over for identifying marks, but found none. The size was plainly marked on a sticker under the sweat-band.
“I never paid no attention to the size of DuMond’s head,” said Chuck.
“When yore life depends on noticin’ things, yuh get the habit of seein’ ’em,” said Hashknife gravely. “Did any of yuh ever see old Rance McCoy wearin’ a hat as big as this one?”
None of them had.
“It shore ain’t the one he had when he was in jail,” declared Chuck. “That one was an awful old wreck.”
“Did Billy DuMond have any money?” asked Hashknife.
“On forty a month?” grinned Slim.
“Was him and Angel McCoy good friends?”
“Always have been, I reckon.”
Hashknife straightened out the black sombrero. It was not the type of hat an old man would buy. It was one of the size known as “five-gallon,” and of a rather expensive finish.
“Cost about forty dollars,” said Hashknife. “I had one almost like it a few years ago. Wore it on Sunday. The jigger who owned this hat was kind of a dude.”
“Which shore lets out Rance McCoy and Billy DuMond,” laughed Slim. “I know DuMond wouldn’t spend a month’s salary for a hat. The question is—will we gain anythin’ by waitin’ for Chuckwalla to make a move?”
Hashknife shook his head slowly, still eyeing the hat.
“I don’t think so, Slim. There’s more behind this than we think. It’s commencin’ to brew a little. Crooks always make mistakes. And every time they try to rectify one, they make another. Don’t believe what yuh see, because it might be made to look thataway.”
Slim squinted closely at Hashknife, as though trying to read behind those level gray eyes.
“Hartley, have yuh struck a trail?” he asked.
“The makin’ of one, Slim. The blazes ain’t so danged plain yet—but they’re blazes, just the same. Let’s go back to town and get a rig to haul DuMond in with. We’ll let Chuckwalla do as he pleases today. If he had old Rance hid out in the brush, he wouldn’t visit him in the daylight.”
“That’s right. We ain’t got much sense.”
“Not too much, Slim.”
“No such a thing! You’re crazy, all of yuh!”
Old Chuckwalla fairly danced up and down on the sheriff’s office floor and his mustaches bristled angrily. He shook a gnarled fist at Slim Caldwell.
“You long-legged gallinipper!” he roared. “You accuse me of bustin’ yore hen-coop of a jail, do yuh? You think I let Rance McCoy out, eh? I’d shore crave to know where yuh got that idea.”
It was the day after they had found DuMond’s body, and Chuckwalla had just been told that Rance had been delivered from the jail. Slim had come out openly and asked Chuckwalla where he had taken Rance. Of course the old man was properly indignant.
“You swore you’d bust the jail,” reminded Slim.
“Uh-huh. Shore I did. I was mad—and drunk. But I never done it, Slim. Honest to God!”
“Then where in hell is he?” demanded Slim. “If you didn’t take him out—who did?” Chuckwalla waved his arms helplessly.
“How’d I know?”
Slim turned and looked at Hashknife, who was smiling at old Chuckwalla.
“What do you think, Hashknife?”
“Oh, I dunno. You know Billy DuMond is dead, don’tcha, Chuckwalla?”
“Heard he was. That ain’t nothin’ to tear a shirt over. This country would ’a’ been better off if DuMond had been strangled in infancy. Blame Rance for it, don’tcha? Sure, yuh would.”
Chuckwalla glared indignantly and backed to the door.
“Where are yuh goin’?” asked Slim.
“To hunt for Rance McCoy. Somebody’s got to find him—and the sheriff’s office is full of incompetent chair-warmers.”
“Where are yuh goin’ to look?” asked Chuck.
“That’s none of yore business.”
He went up the sidewalk, tramping heavily, his spurs rasping on the worn boards. Slim shrugged his shoulders wearily and leaned back in his chair.
“Now, what do yuh think, Hashknife?”
“The old boy seemed very emphatic, Slim.”
Hashknife walked to the door and looked up the street. He saw Lila enter Barker’s store.
“I think I need some tobacco,” he said, and left the office. Slim watched him out of the door, and saw him join Lila. He started to follow him, but decided not to.
He met Lila at the store entrance. She was taking some packages down to Parker’s house; so he walked along with her.
“Things are breakin’ kinda bad for yuh, ain’t they?” asked Hashknife.
Lila nodded. It seemed to Hashknife as though she did not want to talk about it.
“You heard about DuMond’s death?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do yuh think Rance McCoy killed him?”
“Not if he was murdered, as they say he was. Rance McCoy would have killed him in a fair fight.”
“They think Chuckwalla took him out of jail.”
“I know they do. But I don’t believe it. Chuckwalla talks a lot. He’s just a big-hearted old man, rough on the outside. He wouldn’t hit Scotty McKay, unless it was in a fair fight.”
“You don’t dislike Rance McCoy, do you?”
“Dislike him?”
Lila turned her head away, but not too quickly for Hashknife to have seen the tears in her eyes.
“I don’t dislike him,” she said wearily. “I was hurt and sick over it all. It seemed so unfair that no one had told me who I was—and what I was. You don’t know what it means, Mr. Hartley. And now they’ve taken my school away.”
“Yeah, I heard about it, Lila. I’m callin’ yuh Lila because everybody else does.”
“That’s all right.”
They stopped at the Parker gate.
“I’ve heard that Rance McCoy and his son never did hitch very well,” said Hashknife.
“Not very well,” admitted Lila. “They’ve always been at swords’ points, even when Angel was a little boy. Rance McCoy has always stood by Angel, even when Angel deserved severe punishment, but there never seemed any love between them. Even when Angel and I were little, he used to take Angel’s part against me.”
“Case of blood bein’ thicker than water, eh? Oh, I didn’t mean to say that, Lila.”
“But it is true.”
“Yeah, I reckon it is.”
“Do you believe in heredity?” Lila was painfully serious now. It was a question that hurt her to propound.
“Heredity? If yuh mean physical forms, color, disposition—yes. If yuh mean inherited vices, physical failings—no. Horse-stealin’ don’t necessarily run through a family. Preachers’ sons don’t usually make preachers. Blindness ain’t inherited; so why should any other physical ailment be? I knowed two weak little folks up in Montana that raised a heavy-weight fighter. But yuh can make yore own heredity, Lila—most folks do.”
“You mean—thinking about it?” anxiously.
“Thinkin’ the wrong way about it.”
“But—but what if other folks think against you?”
Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.
“That’s an Injun idea, Lila. Never admit that yore medicine is weaker than that of the other feller. Yore mind is the only one that can hurt you.”
Lila sighed and shifted her packages.
“Anyway,” she said, trying to smile, “your theory is worth thinking about.”
“It’s worth usin’,” seriously. “I know, because I’ve shore used it. You quit worryin’ about yourself—and about anythin’. You’ve done no wrong; and when you’re right, yuh don’t need to worry about anythin’.”
“Perhaps that is right. Oh, I hope everything will come out right for Rance McCoy. Slim Caldwell likes you; he told me he did.”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “that makes two folks he likes, Lila, ’cause he didn’t need to tell me who the other one was.”
Lila blushed quickly and hurried toward the house. At the porch she turned and waved to Hashknife, and he knew she was smiling.
He went back to the office, where the doctor was dressing Scotty’s head. Slim had gone up the street, but Chuck and Sleepy were still there.
“Let’s go down and take a look at the shack we didn’t see yesterday,” suggested Hashknife.
Chuck quickly agreed. They took a pair of rifles from the sheriff’s gun-rack, saddled their horses, and headed out of town, after leaving word with Scotty to tell Slim where they were going.
They took the road which led to the Half-Box R, crossed the bridge where they had found DuMond’s body, and then swung to the left, following the river. The country was very rough, and the buck-brush grew thick, with here and there a large patch of greasewood and occasional jackpine clump.
But Chuck knew the location of the hidden shack, and led them straight to it. There was no clearing to show that any kind of a habitation existed. The front end of the dwelling had been built of jackpine poles, more like the entrance to a tunnel than a human abode.
The old door was still in place, but sagging open. Just at the entrance, where they dismounted, was a space of possibly twenty feet long of fairly bare ground. There were horsetracks here, and Hashknife squatted on his heels to study them closely, while Sleepy and Chuck kept an eye on the sagging door.
“C’mere, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. He pointed a forefinger at a track in the dusty earth. In fact there were two tracks close together, apparently made by the same animal, but one track showed a smooth shoe, while the other mark plainly showed a calked shoe.
“The Ghost!” snorted Sleepy. “Yessir, that’s him.”
“Yore gray horse?” queried Chuck.
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife.
“Yuh mean to tell me yuh know the footprints of yore own horse, Hashknife?”
“I ought to—I shoe him myself, Chuck. Notice that track? That’s his left front foot. Put a toe-calk on that foot and he’ll stumble badly; so I always shoe him with light calks on the rest, and leave that one plain. But the worst of it is, we don’t know how long ago these tracks were made. A track would look fresh a long time in that dry earth.”
Practically all of the cabin was a dugout, and, except for the entrance, was of dirt walls. The floor was of dirt. At the rear was a small fireplace, and the rusty old stovepipe barely cleared the top of the brush on the slope of the hill.
There had not been a fire in the dugout for a long time, and the only sign of occupancy was an empty bean can, still containing a few fairly fresh beans, and on the dirt floor were a number of cigarette-butts. Hashknife examined them and decided that some of them had been smoked but a short time ago.
They came back to the sunlight and mounted their horses.
“Somebody’s been here lately,” decided Hashknife. “And that person ate canned beans, smoked cigarettes, and rode my horse. If Kid Glover stole my horse, and still rides him, he came back from Welcome instead of keeping on goin’.”
“He’d probably know about this dugout,” said Chuck. “The Kid was here quite a while, and lots of the Reimer stock range through here. I wish I knew why he stole yore horse, Hashknife. He probably don’t know whose horse he got, and I don’t think it would make any difference to him if he did. The Kid shore is a cold-blooded person, and if he’s got any conscience at all, I’m an evangelist.”
“Let’s ride over to the Half-Box R,” suggested Hashknife. “Butch Reimer might have some word of Glover.”
“He wouldn’t give the Kid away, Hashknife. But we’ll ride over, anyway. Yuh never can tell.”
But they were spared the ride. As they struck the road below the bridge they met Reimer and Blackwell, traveling toward town.
“Hyah, cowboys,” grunted Butch. “What do yuh know?”
“Not much,” smiled Hashknife. “Ain’t seen anythin’ of Kid Glover, have yuh?”
A queer expression flashed across Butch’s eyes as he looked quickly at Hashknife.
“Haven’t seen him; have you, Hartley?”
“Nope. But if he’s ridin’ my gray horse, he’s been around here lately.”
“How do yuh make that out?”
“Found the track of my horse.”
Butch laughed shortly.
“Yuh don’t mean to say yuh know the track of yore horse, do yuh, Hartley?”
“Yeah. Shod him myself, Butch.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Butch drew the brim of his hat farther down over his eyes as he looked out across the broken hills.
“Kinda funny, ain’t it—him comin’ back?”
“What’s funny about it?” demanded Butch.
“It’s a free country.”
“Pretty free,” admitted Hashknife.
They bunched together and headed back toward Red Arrow. Hashknife would have given much to know what was going on behind Butch’s little eyes, which seemed busy scanning the road and the surrounding country. There was little conversation. Hashknife was doing a bit of thinking himself. Blackwell talked to Chuck and Sleepy, but seemed to avoid Hashknife.
“Inquest tomorrow,” said Hashknife, breaking a long silence between him and Butch.
Butch nodded shortly.
“Bury Billy in town, I reckon. Got no relatives that I know about. I hope they git old Rance.”
“Think Rance shot him?”
“Sure. He was the only man who wanted to kill old DuMond.”
“But he wanted to kill him fair, didn’t he?”
“If he had a chance. Billy was scared of him.”
“And you think Rance McCoy deliberately murdered him?”
“I reckon that’s what the jury will say.”
“I suppose they will.”
After a few minutes of deliberation, Butch turned in his saddle and looked squarely at Hashknife.
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
“I dunno,” evaded Hashknife.
“I jist wondered. You’ve had so dam’ much to say about it. I believe in leavin’ things like that to the sheriff and the court, and if the rest of the folks would do the same, we’d be better off.”
“Some folks would,” agreed Hashknife meaningly.
“Some folks would what?”
“Be better off.”
“Mm-m-m-m.”
Butch touched spur to his horse and moved in beside Chuck, leaving Hashknife to bring up the rear. But the tall, gray-eyed cowboy didn’t seem to mind. He grinned widely and began rolling a cigarette.
Hashknife and Sleepy testified at the inquest on the following day, but the questions were perfunctory. There was no evidence to connect Rance McCoy with the killing; so the coroner’s jury decided that Billy DuMond had been killed by a gun-shot wound, fired by a party or parties unknown. But they did recommend that the sheriff apprehend Rance McCoy.
Which was a rather ridiculous recommendation, as the sheriff already wanted Rance on the charge of robbing the Wells Fargo Express Company. Hashknife had asked Slim not to exhibit the black sombrero, and Slim respected Hashknife’s wishes to the extent that no mention was made of the hat.
Reimer and his crew were there, but none of them made any mention of the hat. After the inquest Butch Reimer asked Slim who had the hat, and was informed that the hat was locked up in the office safe. Butch did not comment on it, nor did he ask just why Billy DuMond’s hat should be locked up in a safe.
Billy DuMond’s body was duly interred that day, and there were no mourners. Butch Reimer paid the preacher and the doctor, who acted in the capacity of undertaker, and Billy DuMond was consigned to what was known as the “Red Arrow Cemetery”—the wind-swept slope of a hill surrounded with greasewood.
“I’m goin’ to git the man who shot Billy,” Butch Reimer was heard to declare, and every one knew he meant Rance McCoy.
“You better not announce yore approach,” grinned Jim Langley, who came in for the inquest. “He’s one hard old jigger.”
Langley had Jess Fohl with him. Jess drank quite a lot of liquor before the funeral, and cried all the way back to town, where Langley told him he’d cut his ears off if he took another drink. Langley came down and talked with Slim and Hashknife about old Rance. Langley did not seem to think that Rance shot DuMond, but he would not even venture a guess as to who had killed him.
“Why don’tcha think it was Rance?” queried Hashknife.
“It’s like this,” explained Langley. “Rance got that hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars cached. Chuckwalla busted jail for him, and old Rance has high-tailed it out of this country, takin’ the stuff along. As soon as things blow over, old Chuckwalla will hit the grit. Now, you jist watch and see if I ain’t right, Slim.”
“And you think Rance was so anxious to get out of the country that he wouldn’t stop long enough to kill DuMond, eh?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t think he would.”
“And you don’t think old Rance will ever come back?”
Langley shut his lips tightly for a moment, as he shook his head in the negative.
“No,” he said, “I’d almost bet he won’t.”
“Well, we better work on it from a different angle, Hashknife,” said Slim seriously.
“Are you workin’ on it, Hartley?” asked Langley.
“Well, I’m kinda helpin’ Slim,” laughed Hashknife.
Later on that day Langley and Butch Reimer met in front of the Red Arrow and discussed the case. Reimer had imbibed a few drinks and was inclined to be big-voiced.
“What we need is a sheriff who can arrest and hold a man,” he said. “Slim’s all right in his way, but he don’t weigh enough. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Langley laughed with him.
“Slim’s got a feller workin’ with him who’s jist a little skinnier than Slim,” laughed Langley.
“Oh, that Hartley person. Don’t look like much, does he, Jim? But lemme tell yuh somethin’.” Butch grew very confidential. “Slim says this feller is a wonder as a detective. Accordin’ to Slim, this Hartley’s got a nose that can smell out crime like a bloodhound follerin’ boot-tracks in the snow.”
“Is he a detective?” asked Langley.
“And then some, accordin’ to Slim.”
“Well,” said Langley seriously, “yuh never can tell much about a man, lookin’ at him from the outside. But Slim is goin’ to need more than a thin-faced puncher to clear up all this mess.”
“That’s true. Say, have yuh seen anythin’ of Angel lately?”
“He’s workin’ for me,” laughed Langley. “Quite a drop, eh? Well, he was kinda sour on the world, Butch, and jist for fun I offered him a job. He’s busted, he says. Old Rance cleaned him out that night, I reckon. He’s a good puncher. For some reason he’s sore at Slim.”
“On account of that girl,” said Butch. “They’re both stuck on her.”
“Shucks!” exclaimed Langley. “She was the one who busted up Angel’s games that night. She swore he was crooked. He wouldn’t want her, Butch.”
“Mebby not; I was jist guessin’; but Slim sure does. Where do yuh suppose old Rance is hidin’ out?”
“He ain’t hidin’; he’s foggin’. Betcha ten to one he never comes back, Butch.”
“No, I wouldn’t bet on it, Jim.”
“How much do yuh want to bet?”
They turned quickly to face Hashknife, who had come up behind them unnoticed.
“Why, I—I dunno,” faltered Langley. “How much do yuh want to bet, Hartley?”
“Anywhere from a hundred to a thousand—at one-to-ten, Langley. It looks like easy money to me.”
Hashknife had exactly fifty dollars in his pocket. If it hadn’t been that Sleepy’s luck had been good at the Red Arrow, both of them would have been broke by this time.
But Langley wouldn’t bet, and Hashknife had been sure of it. He knew Langley’s type very well.
“Anyway,” declared Langley, “that’s my personal opinion. I may be wrong, of course. But why wouldyoubet on a thing like that, Hartley?”
“I’d bet that the moon was made of cheese if somebody would give me odds like that. And I really think he’ll come back, Langley.”
“Well,” dubiously, “you may be right. He’d be a fool to come back, I think, don’t you?”
“Looks thataway to me,” agreed Butch. “I wouldn’t.”
Langley had some purchases to make, so he excused himself and went down to Parker’s store, leaving Butch and Hashknife together.
“Jim just told me that Angel is punchin’ cows for him,” said Butch.
Hashknife smiled. “I wondered where he’d gone.”
“The old man busted him, Hartley. By golly, the old man sure went out of this country well heeled. He can afford to lose his ranch. I’ll be danged if I think he’ll ever come back. I’d hate to even take Langley’s ten-to-one bet on a thing like that.”
“Well, I’ll take it, Reimer. And if Kid Glover ever shows up at yore place, I wish you’d let me know. I want that gray horse, and I won’t go hard with the Kid. He merely traded with me, and I’ll consider that he’s over bein’ color-blind.”
Butch smiled grimly.
“I’ll tell him, Hartley. But do yuh really think he was back in this country?”
“I’d know them hoof-marks in hell. And if he was headin’ out of the country, he wouldn’t come back here from Welcome, just to make tracks in the dust.”
“No, that’s a fact. But lemme tell yuh somethin’, Hartley; if you meet Kid Glover, shoot quick. He’s a bad man, and if he knows you own that horse, he’ll kill yuh when yuh meet.”
“Oh, I’m not worryin’ about that, Reimer; but thanks, just the same.”
“You’re welcome.”
“He’s kinda goin’ back on his own friends,” said Hashknife to himself, as he went back to the office. “Warns me to shoot first, eh?”
Slim wanted to go down across the river and watch the old dugout, but Hashknife had no liking for that tangle of brush at night, so they decided to make it an early morning call instead. Slim had sent out telegrams describing old Rance McCoy, warning the officers of the neighboring counties to be on the lookout for him; but as yet no one had reported seeing him.
It was about midnight that night, and Hashknife and Sleepy were in their room talking over the events of the day. The town was very quiet when they heard a horse running up the street, a splattering of hoof-beats, denoting that the rider had, in the parlance of the range, “spiked his horse’s tail” across the street from them at the Red Arrow Saloon.
Hashknife cautiously blew out the lamp before raising the window and shade. Excited voices showed that something had excited them. He could see a horse and several men in the light from the saloon window. One man ran down the street toward the sheriff’s office, while another headed the opposite way.
“We better go down and listen to this, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. They drew on their boots and headed for the saloon. Slim was just arriving on the scene, pulling on his shirt.
Dell Blackwell, of the Half-Box R, was the rider.
“Now tell me jist what happened,” said Slim, half out of breath.
“Somebody shot Eddie Corby. Here’s the way it was. Me and Butch and Jim Kendall and Eddie was playin’ poker in the bunk-house. Butch was losin’, and he got so mad he tore up the cards. He always does that. Well, we didn’t have another deck in the bunk-house.
“Butch said he had several decks in the ranch-house, but he’d be damned if he’d go after one. Eddie said he’d get it, and Butch told him they was in a cupboard in the front room. Eddie was gone jist a few minutes when we hears a gun go off.
“We busted out to see what was goin’ on. We was all kinda jumpy since DuMond got shot, yuh see. But there wasn’t nothin’ to be seen, because it was dark as hell. There’s a light in the house, and we all went up there. The front door is wide open, and there in front of that cupboard lays Eddie, shot from behind.
“I think he’s dead, m’self; but Butch says to bring a doctor. Looks t’ me as though he’d been shot with a thirty-thirty, and I don’t think he’s got a chance in the world. And that’s all we know about it, Slim.”
“Why would anybody shoot Eddie Corby?” wondered Slim Caldwell.
Corby was an inoffensive sort of person, who was not physically strong enough to be a cowboy; so he worked as a horse-wrangler and helped around the ranch.
“It’s got me beat,” declared Blackwell. “Eddie never done anythin’ to anybody. Why, he hardly ever went off the ranch. Personally, I think somebody mistook him for Butch. They’re about the same size, and Butch is the only one who sleeps in the ranch-house. I wouldn’t tell this to Butch, ’cause it’d scare hell out of him.”
“Who’d shoot Butch?” asked Slim quickly.
“Who knows? Butch might have enemies, Slim.”
“I suppose he might. I’d better saddle up. When the doctor shows up, tell him I’m goin’ out. Mebby I’ll beat him there. Want to go along, Hashknife?”
Hashknife shook his head quickly.
“You don’t need me, Slim.”
“I’ll take Chuck. I left him tryin’ to get his legs out of his coat-sleeves. Made a mistake and grabbed his coat instead of his pants.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the hotel.
“What’s gone wrong with this country?” asked Sleepy. “Ain’t they gotnorespect for human life?”
“Not in their frame of mind. From now on, look out. When they start playin’ this here tit-tat-toe stuff with bullets, yuh never know when you’re goin’ to be ‘it.’ I don’t like the rules they use.”
“What doyouknow?” demanded Sleepy.
“Guessin’ a little, Sleepy.”
“Yea-a-ah? Who shot this Corby person?”
“That’s a pretty blunt question, cowboy. We better hit the hay and catch up a little sleep.”
“Say!” demanded Sleepy. “Why won’t yuh never let me in on anythin’ yuh know?”
“Dunno anythin’. Do you believe in heredity?”
“I sure do, you descendant of a clam.”