It was supper time when Honey and Sleepy came back to the HJ and they brought Slim Coleman with them. They had met Slim near the west end of the bridge, and he rode over with them to have some supper before going back to the Lazy B.
Slim was almost the counterpart of Hashknife physically, being rather a high-pocket sort of individual. The girls welcomed Slim, for he was as one of the family—an old-timer in the Tumbling River and a bunkie of Honey Bee’s when Honey was at the Lazy B.
“It’s shore tough, this here offerin’ of a reward, dead or alive, for Joe Rich,” said Slim, who did not have a particle of diplomacy in his system.
Peggy gasped and fled from the room, while Honey proceeded to upbraid Slim for making such a foolish remark before Peggy.
“Well, how’d I know?” wailed Slim. “Nobody told me she was still feelin’ right toward Joe.”
“Didn’t I tell yuh to not talk much about it?” demanded Honey angrily. “I told yuh that when we was crossin’ the bridge.”
“Yeah, I know yuh did. But I didn’t talk much. My ⸺, I only said it was too bad!”
“Well, that’s a lot, Slim. Peggy didn’t know they wanted Joe for murder.”
“Well, she knows it now. I s’pose I might as well be the one to break the news to her.”
“Oh, it don’t matter so much,” said Hashknife. “She’d find it out tomorrow, anyway. We’re all to be called on that inquest—me and Sleepy and Honey. It won’t amount to anythin’. They’ll just bring in a verdict chargin’ Joe with the murder.”
“I was talkin’ to Ross Layton before we left town,” said Honey. “Kelsey is gettin’ out new reward notices. He wanted the commissioners to vote more money on that reward, but Ross and Angus McLaren were against it.”
“Kelsey’s got the idea that some of Joe’s friends are hidin’ him, and that a bigger reward would make ’em trade him in.” Hashknife laughed heartily.
“That’s a new one, Honey. I’ve heard of lots of reasons for offerin’ rewards, but that’s the first time I ever heard of tryin’ to buy off a friendship.”
“Well, that was Kelsey’s idea. He’s shore a bright sheriff. He thinks that an added reward would cause Joe’s friends to pop him on the head and bring him in.”
“It might, at that,” said Hashknife.
Wong Lee called them to supper, but the two girls did not come to the table.
“Slim, you raised ⸺ with yore remarks,” whispered Honey.
“What do yuh mean?”
“Ruined the girls’ appetites.”
“Pshaw, I’m sorry about that.”
They ate silently for several minutes, and then Slim laid down his knife and fork.
“I found somethin’ funny today,” he said. “I was ridin’ down a coulee, kinda southeast of the Lazy B, and I finds a dead horse. Plenty buzzards feedin’. But the funny part of it is this: That horse has been skinned. Yessir, it shore had. I looked it all over and there ain’t a sign of skin on it anywhere. And it kinda looked to me as though somebody had pulled the shoes off it, too. Anyway, it never traveled far after the shoes was taken off.”
“Somebody needed horse-hide,” observed Honey, helping himself to more food.
“Yeah, I s’pose they did,” agreed Slim, resuming his meal. “It ain’t a common thing for to skin a dead horse. It ain’t been dead a ⸺ of a long time. I didn’t smell—”
“Hey!” snorted Honey. “What the ⸺ do yuh think this is? We’re eatin’ a meal, Slim.”
“Oh, I beg yore pardon.”
“Could yuh find it again?” asked Hashknife grinning.
“Shore. If the wind’s blowin’ jist—”
“Wait a minute!” snorted Honey. “You let up on that departed critter, or I’ll—I’ll—”
“All right, Honey.”
“About how long had the animal been dead, Slim?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, I’ll tell yuh, Hartley. Judgin’ from the—”
“Oh, ⸺!” exploded Honey.
He kicked back his chair and tramped out through the kitchen to the rear of the house, where he sat down on the well-curb and rolled a smoke.
Slim reached across the table, removed an egg from Honey’s plate and placed it on his own.
“I can allus git extra food thataway,” he grinned. “Honey ain’t very strong. Too ⸺ much ’magination, I’d say.”
They finished their supper and went down to the bunk-house. Slim wanted to play pitch. Hashknife declined to be a party to any card arguments; so he stayed out of the game and went back to the ranch-house, where he found Wong Lee serving supper to Peggy and Laura.
No reference was made to Slim’s statement about the reward, but it was rather difficult to find any conversation that did not connect with the troubles of Tumbling River. Laura essayed a few pieces of music on the old upright organ, while Peggy curled up in an old rocker, her chin on one hand. Hashknife sprawled on the sofa, his long legs crossed, while the blue smoke curled up from his cigaret.
“Don’t you sing, Hashknife?” Laura turned on the stool and looked at Hashknife.
“Yeah, I sing—sometimes.”
“Come and sing us a song.”
“No-o-o-o, I don’t think so, Laura. I’m what you’d call an absent-minded singer. I never sing when I know just what I’m doin’.”
“Joe used to sing,” said Peggy simply.
“And he had a good voice, too,” added Laura.
There was a long period of silence. Finally Hashknife got to his feet and stood there for a long time, deep in thought. The two girls watched him curiously. Suddenly he looked at them, and a smile spread across his face.
“I just got some good news,” he said.
“You got some good news?” Laura got up from the stool and stared at him. “How could you get some good news?”
Hashknife laughed softly and sat down again.
“I just got to thinkin’,” he said. “Sometimes I get news thataway. Go ahead and play somethin’, Laura.”
For possibly an hour Laura played snatches of old songs, playing entirely by ear. Hashknife still sprawled on the sofa, his eyes closed. Several times Laura and Peggy exchanged amused glances, thinking he was asleep, but he was far from it. Finally Laura left the organ, and Hashknife opened his eyes.
“Play another one, Laura,” he asked.
“Another one?” The little blond-headed girl laughed. “Why, I’ve been playing for over an hour, Hashknife.”
“Thasso?” He smiled at her. “That shows how much I enjoyed yore music.”
“I don’t believe you were listening at all.”
“Oh, yeah, I was.”
The two girls decided to go to bed and left Hashknife to his cigaret-rolling. For another hour he smoked, only moving to throw a cigaret butt into the fireplace and to roll a fresh one. He had turned the lamp down low when the girls left the room and now he blew out the light, yawned heavily and went to the front door.
It was dark outside and the wind was blowing. He could see the dull glow of a light in the bunk-house window as he stepped off the porch. To the left and to the rear of the bunk-house was the main stable, behind which was part of the corral, which extended out from a front corner of the stable.
Hashknife was half-way to the bunk-house when something attracted his attention. It was down near the stable and sounded very much like a smothered cry. The wind was blowing from that direction. He stopped short, peering through the darkness. There was something moving down near the stable.
Hashknife hurried toward the stable, wondering whether it had been a cry or merely the sound of the stable door in the wind. Then he saw the bulk of a moving horse swinging around as if frightened, and he could hear the bang of the stable door swinging in the wind.
But before he could determine just what was going on, the flame of a revolver shot licked out toward him and he heard the bullet strike the ranch-house. Again and again the gun flashed; but Hashknife had dropped flat and was shooting back at the flashes.
He heard the bunk-house door slam open. Sleepy was running toward him, calling his name. The last flash came from the further corner of the stable front as the shooter darted behind cover. Honey was behind Sleepy, yelling for somebody to tell him what it was all about.
“Stop yellin’!” snapped Hashknife. “One of yuh circle this side of the corral. He’s behind the stable. C’mon!”
Sleepy went galloping around the corral, while Hashknife and Honey swung wide of the stable. But the willows and other brush grew down within fifty feet of that side, affording plenty of cover for any one to make a getaway.
After a fifteen-minute search they gave up. It was so dark that a man could merely lie down on the ground and be invisible. They met at the front of the stable, and there they almost stumbled over Slim Coleman, who was sitting up. They heard him swear long and earnestly.
“What in ⸺ happened to you, Slim?” asked Honey.
But Slim merely continued to swear, although he was able to walk back to the bunk-house without assistance. He had a lump over his left ear, a bruised nose, and some skin off his right knuckles.
He blinked in the lamplight and tried to grin.
“Talk about it,” urged Honey.
“Talk about it, eh? Well, I dunno what to talk about. After I left the bunk-house I went to git my bronc. Didn’t see a danged soul around there, but when I led my horse out I runs slap-dab into somebody. I thought it was one of you boys, comin’ out to see if I was gettin’ started.
“I started to say somethin’, when I got the flash of a six-gun barrel, which almost knocked my nose off. It did jist scrape my nose. I couldn’t see the feller very good, but I took a smash at him with my right fist, and I think I hit that ⸺ gun. And then I got a wallop on the head and I seen all kinds of fireworks. It jist keeled me over, and I ’member tryin’ to yell for help. The rest of it is kinda hazy. Wheee-e! I’ve shore got me an awful headache.”
“But who in ⸺ was it?” wondered Honey. “Is there somebody tryin’ to lay yuh out, Slim?”
“Must be. Feel of that bump.”
“Honey,” said Hashknife, “you better go up to the house and tell the girls what that shootin’ was all about. Some of them bullets hit the house. And bring back a pan of hot water, so we can fix Slim’s head.”
Honey raced for the house and Slim sat down on a bunk. He was still a little dazed.
“Yore bronc is still there by the corral fence,” said Sleepy.
“Uh-huh. I still had the lead-rope when I fell. Gee, I shore don’t sabe it, boys. I dunno anybody that hates me enough to pop me in the dark. It’s lucky he didn’t hit any of yuh.”
“Missed me a mile,” grinned Hashknife.
In a few minutes Honey came back carrying a pan of water.
“The girls were scared stiff,” he said. “One of them bullets busted the window on this side, and some of the others hit the house. They want me to sleep in the ranch-house.”
“I’ll bet that makes yuh sore,” grinned Sleepy.
“Aw, jist put some horse-liniment on it and I’ll head for home,” said Slim. “It don’t hurt much.”
“Yo’re not goin’ home tonight,” declared Hashknife. “This is no night for a tall jigger like you to be ridin’. Shuck off yore raiment and pile into Honey’s bunk while me and Sleepy unsaddle yore bronc.”
Slim’s protests were very feeble.
“Curt Bellew will swear I got drunk and forgot to come home.”
“We’ll be yore alibi, Slim,” assured Hashknife. “And more than that, I’m goin’ to need yuh tomorrow.”
“Well, all right. Go kinda tender on that pinnacle, cowboy. She’s shore a blood-brother to a boil.”
Hashknife fixed up Slim’s head and then went up to the ranch-house, where he called Honey outside.
“We won’t be here for breakfast,” he told Honey. “Me and Sleepy and Slim are goin’ to take a ride early in the mornin’; sabe? They’re holdin’ that inquest at two o’clock in the afternoon. You hitch up the buggy team in the mornin’ and take the girls to town. Tell ’em I said for ’em to go, Honey. Be there for the inquest.”
“But what for, Hashknife?”
“Just for fun, Honey. Good night.”
“You’ll be at the inquest, won’t yuh?”
“Sure, I’m the main witness.”
It was an hour before daylight when Hashknife, Sleepy and Slim Coleman rode away from the HJ. Slim’s head was a little sore, but the swelling was reduced. Sleepy protested against such an early start; which was the natural thing for him to do, especially since he didn’t know where they were going.
They forded the river below the bridge—much to Sleepy’s disgust. He got one boot full of water.
“Bridge is too narrow,” said Hashknife, “and there’s too much brush on the other side of it.”
“You must be scared,” laughed Sleepy.
The bootful of water made him feel particularly sarcastic. Anyway, he didn’t like to ride with an empty stomach.
“Yeah, I’m scared,” admitted Hashknife as they reached the other bank and climbed to the top.
“You take the lead, Slim,” he said. “Take us to that dead horse.”
“All right. It’ll be kinda slow goin’ in the dark, but it’ll be daylight by the time we get there. Got to swing wide of the river on account of the breaks. We can eat breakfast at the Lazy B, if yuh want to.”
“We’ll look at the horse first, Slim. We may not get any breakfast.”
“That’s the ⸺ of bein’ pardner to a man who is so ⸺ curious he’ll get up in the middle of the night to hunt for a dead horse,” said Sleepy.
They were obliged to travel slowly, and the cold morning wind caused Sleepy to swear at his wet feet. He was uncomfortable, and didn’t care who knew it. The stars faded, and a rosy glow in the east proclaimed the coming of daylight.
Slim knew the country well, and had little difficulty in locating the correct coulee. A coyote streaked out through the brush and went loping off across the hills. He wasn’t a bit curious about these cowboys. They often carried rifles, and were not a bit particular which coyote they shot at.
They found the carcass, and Hashknife did not take long in his examination. The other two men sat on their horses some distance away, holding Hashknife’s horse. He came back and climbed into his saddle.
“Shall we go to the Lazy B and eat?” asked Slim.
Hashknife shook his head.
“No time to eat, Slim. Is there a place where we can cross the river down here?”
“Yeah, there’s the old Circle M crossin’. They herd cattle across once in a while.”
“That’s fine. Lead us to it.”
“My ⸺ , you’d think he was a sailor!” wailed Sleepy. “He must be crazy about water. Oh, well, there’s no use arguin’ with him, Slim.”
“You won’t miss yore breakfast,” assured Hashknife. “If I was as fat as you are I’d welcome a fast.”
“I don’t mind the breakfast but I’d like to know what it’s all about,” said Slim.
“Well, yuh won’t know,” declared Sleepy. “This jigger never tells. He’s a single-handed secret society, he is, Slim.”
Hashknife merely laughed and swung in beside them.
“Are yuh pretty good with a six-gun, Slim?”
“Pretty good? Meanin’ what, Hartley?”
“Did yuh ever kill a man?”
“Nope,” Slim shook his head violently. “Never had to.”
“Would, if yuh had to, wouldn’t yuh?”
“Sure—why not?”
“Yuh may have to.”
Sleepy straightened up in his saddle. Slim looked quickly at Sleepy who was grinning widely. Sleepy always grinned when there was action in the wind.
“I don’t quite sabe the drift of this, Hartley,” said Slim. “Why should I have to kill a man?”
“To make him quit shootin’.”
“Oh, yeah. Well—all right.”
Slim drew his six-shooter, examined the cylinder critically and put it back.
“I wish I’d ’a’ practised more,” he said dryly.
Hashknife grinned in appreciation. He felt that Slim was a dependable man. They reached the west bank of the river and rode south for about a quarter of a mile to the Circle M crossing. The water was not deep here.
Old cottonwoods grew close to the water edge and there were many cattle standing among the trees. The cowboys rode out to the open country, almost within sight of the Circle M. Hashknife studied the country. Farther on and to their left was a rather high butte, fairly well covered with brush.
“On the other side of that is the Circle M road, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.
Slim nodded.
“Circles the bottom of it on that side. It’s only a little ways to the Circle M. There’s a little stream comes down on this side of the butte, and the road crosses it.”
Hashknife took the lead now. He rode to the south of the butte, dismounted at the foot and tied his horse in the thick brush. The other boys followed him, and they walked up through the brush to the top of the butte.
Below, and not over four hundred yards to the south, were the ranch buildings of the Circle M. Hashknife squatted down on a rocky projection and told the others to keep out of sight. There was enough high brush to make an effectual screen.
The ranch-house of the Circle M was a rambling affair consisting of but one floor. The exterior was rough boards, weathered, unpainted. There were two stables and a number of low sheds, branding corral, bucking corral and general utility corrals. A number of loose horses were in the larger corral.
Smoke was pouring from the kitchen stovepipe, and in a few minutes a man came from the stable and went to the house.
“That’s Ben Collins,” said Slim. “I know his walk.”
“Have they got a Chink cook?” asked Sleepy.
“Nope. Dutch Siebert does most of the cookin’. He’s a puncher. Ed never could keep a cook, it seems, so he uses Dutch. He’s an awful flat-head.”
“Merrick?”
“No—Siebert. Danged flat-faced, obstinate sort of a cuss.”
Sleepy stretched out on the ground and pillowed his head on his arms.
“Wake me up early, mother; I’m to be queen of the May,” he grinned. “If yuh won’t tell me what we’re doin’ here, I’m goin’ to take a nap. Yuh might as well sleep, Slim.”
“Go ahead,” said Hashknife. “I’ll wake yuh up in time.”
Slim needed no second invitation, but slid out full length.
Hashknife made himself comfortable, but not to sleep. He kept an eye on the ranch buildings, and several times he saw Merrick and Collins together. He knew Merrick well enough to distinguish him at that distance.
Time dragged on and the sun grew hot up there on the top of that knoll, but Hashknife had the patience of an Indian. It was nearly eleven o’clock when he saw Merrick and Collins saddle their horses at the corral. A third man came out from the house and talked with them, and Hashknife was sure this man was Dutch Siebert. He was bigger than either of the other two, who were fairly big men.
In a little while Merrick and Collins mounted their horses and moved away from the ranch on the road which led to Pinnacle City. They were going to attend the inquest. Hashknife paid no more attention to them, but noted the time of their leaving and estimated about how long it would take them to reach the town. Dutch Siebert played with a dog in the yard for a few minutes, then went into the house.
Hashknife settled back and rolled a cigaret. Sleepy woke up, swore a few lines, shifted to more shade and went back to sleep. But Hashknife did not become impatient. He knew what he was going to do, and it was something that required fairly accurate timing. He knew that Merrick and Collins would ride fairly fast and would cover that eight miles in less than an hour.
It was thirty minutes past the noon hour when Hashknife woke Sleepy and Slim. Both required some stretching to get the kinks out of their muscles. Hashknife led the way back to the horses, where they mounted, and circled around to the road near the place where the little stream crossed it. Hashknife dismounted at the stream. They were almost in view of the ranch, the main gate being just around a brushy turn in the road.
Sleepy was curious as to what Hashknife intended doing, and his curiosity was even greater when he saw Hashknife take a chunk of yellow soap from his pocket.
“What’sa big idea, cowboy?” he asked. “Goin’ to take a bath?”
“Git off and help me,” grinned Hashknife.
They dismounted and Sleepy held the horse while Hashknife filled his hat with water, poured it over the shoulders of the animal and began rubbing in the soap.
“The idea is,” grunted Hashknife, “to make us look like we’ve come to beat ⸺!”
“Lather, eh?” grunted Slim. “Gimme half that soap, and I’ll fix up this side. You hold the rollin’ stock, Sleepy.”
It did not take long for them to make that horse look as if it had run many miles. They splashed and rubbed until Hashknife stepped back and grinned his appreciation. Then he scooped up a double handful of dust, threw it in the air and let it settle on him, like white ash.
“All right, boys,” he said, swinging into the saddle. “Stay where yuh are until I go past. Then leave yore broncs here and sneak in, keepin’ under cover. If I need yuh, you’ll get a signal. Now, get back, ’cause I’m goin’ to throw dust.”
He rode back about two hundred yards, swung the horse around and came past them as fast as the horse could run. The pounding hoofs threw dust all over them, but they tied their horses and ran along the road, keeping against the brush.
Hashknife did not slacken speed, until almost at the door of the ranch-house. Big Dutch Siebert stepped to the doorway and the sliding hoofs slithered gravel against the half-open door.
Hashknife’s coming was so sudden that the Dutchman did not seem to know just what to do. And Hashknife was out of the saddle and around to Dutch almost before the horse came to a stop. Hashknife took one keen look back up the road, whirled on Dutch and stepped to the threshold.
“Get inside—quick!” snapped Hashknife.
Siebert stepped back quickly. He was a huge man, flat of face, narrow-eyed, one side of his mouth sagging from a big chew of tobacco. Once his big right hand swayed back past his holstered gun, but came away. He was being rushed so fast he didn’t have time to think. And Dutch Siebert was not a fast thinker.
“Ed sent me!” snapped Hashknife. “He didn’t dare to come, because they’re watchin’ him. There’s been a leak, Dutch. Ed says to get Joe out of here as fast as yuh can, because they’re comin’ to search the place. You know what that means? Hurry up, you ⸺ fool; they’re comin’!”
Siebert gasped foolishly, whirled on his heel and almost ran into the kitchen. He grasped the heavy kitchen table, whirled it aside and started to drop to one knee. Then he swung around. Dutch Siebert was beginning to think. His hand jerked back to his gun, but he moved too late.
Hashknife was on top of him, driving him against the wall, while Hashknife’s right hand, gripping a heavy gun, described a short downward arc, and Dutch Siebert ceased to think for a while.
Hashknife picked up Dutch’s gun, ran to the doorway and wig-wagged wildly with both arms. Sleepy and Slim broke from the fringe of brush and came running across the yard.
“One of yuh go to the stable and get a rope!” yelled Hashknife.
Sleepy veered off and headed for the stable.
“Did the soap and water work?” asked Slim, panting from his run.
“It always works,” grinned Hashknife. “C’mon in.”
“Have you seen anythin’ of Slim Coleman, Len?” Curt Bellew leaned in through the doorway of the sheriff’s office and spoke to Kelsey, who was oiling a gun.
“Ain’t seen him,” said Kelsey shortly.
“That’s funny. He started for town yesterday. I’ve been all over this darned place and I can’t find him and nobody has seen him.”
Kelsey did not show much interest, so Curt snorted and walked away. He was a little worried about Slim. Honey Bee and the two girls drove into town and left their rig at the livery-stable. Uncle Hozie and Aunt Emma were in town, and the old lady immediately took charge of the girls, much to Honey’s relief, because he didn’t know what to do with them.
The Heavenly Triplets were in town but were keeping strictly sober. One reason was that they were not only broke but badly in debt. The morning train had brought the conductor, brakeman and fireman of the cattle-train to identify the dead brakeman, and to testify at the inquest.
Curt Bellew, still looking for the missing Slim, ran into Honey Bee. It seemed that everybody in town knew by this time that Slim was missing.
“Aw, he was at the HJ all night,” said Honey. “He was goin’ home, all right, Curt, but somebody bent a gun over his head. By golly, we had quite a shootin’ scrape out there! Somebody emptied a gun at Hashknife Hartley, but didn’t touch him.”
“Honey, you ain’t lyin’, are yuh?” asked Curt. There were several interested listeners.
“I shore ain’t, Curt,” declared Honey. “Slim needed a little patchin’ up, but he’s all right.”
“Where is he now?”
“I can’t tell yuh, Curt—because I don’t know m’self.”
Several questions were fired at Honey, but he had the same answer for each. In the meantime Curt went back to Kelsey’s office and asked him whether he had heard about the shooting at the HJ.
“What shootin’, Curt?”
Curt told him what Honey had said about it.
“Why would anybody hit Slim Coleman?” asked Kelsey.
“That’s the question without any answer.”
“Where are Hartley and Stevens?”
“I dunno. Mebbe they’re with Slim.”
Ed Merrick and Ben Collins rode in from the Circle M, and heard about Slim’s experience before they had their horses tied. Abe Liston of the 3W3 gave them the news.
“By ⸺, they can’t lay that on to Joe Rich,” declared Abe. “Slim and Joe were darned good friends.”
“Where’s Slim now?” asked Merrick.
“Nobody knows, except that he’s with them other punchers at the HJ. Honey Bee and the two girls just came in a while ago, and Honey says he don’t know where they are.”
Merrick found Honey a little later and asked him about the incident. He told Merrick about the same story Abe had told, except that he elaborated on the shooting in the dark between Hashknife and the unknown gunman.
“Well, what do yuh make of it?” asked Merrick.
“I don’t know,” laughed Honey. “Looks like somebody had gone plumb crazy.”
“Does look like it, Honey. What did Hartley think?”
“That feller never says what he thinks, Ed. He bandaged Slim’s head and made him stay all night. Slim wanted to go home, but Hashknife told him it was a bad night for a tall cowpuncher to be ridin’ around.
“Him and Sleepy and Slim pulled out before daylight, but didn’t tell me where they were goin’. Yuh never can find out anythin’ from Hashknife. He just grins at yore questions. It’s a wonder they didn’t accuse me of bustin’ Slim.”
Honey laughed and grimaced at the thought.
“Accuse you?” queried Merrick.
“Yeah. Yuh see, Slim ruined my supper. He told about findin’ a horse that had been skinned. Why in ⸺ anybody would skin a horse is a mystery to me. But anyway, they got to talkin’ about that dead horse. Hashknife was interested, it seemed, and when Slim saw it was botherin me, they went strong.”
Merrick laughed shortly.
“Yeah, it’s a wonder they didn’t accuse yuh of hittin’ him. Mebbe they went to look at the dead horse.”
“I wouldn’t put it past ’em,” laughed Honey. “But they’ll be here for the inquest, Ed.”
Even with the range well represented in Pinnacle City there was not a great deal of interest in the inquest over the body of the brakeman. He was a stranger, and there was but one verdict to be brought in. It would be merely a matter of form. In fact, the rewards were already printed, charging Joe Rich with the murder and offering thirty-five hundred dollars for him dead or alive, or for information that would lead to his arrest. It did not mention conviction. As far as that goes, he was already convicted.
Old Doctor Curzon decided to hold the inquest in a court-room. The crowd was too large for his little home and the county would not pay him for trampled flowerbeds. The body had already been identified by the trainmen. Aunt Emma, Peggy and Laura had taken seats in the Flying H wagon. They were not going up to the court-room. Aunt Emma wanted to find Honey and make him take the girls back home.
“Why did he bring you?” demanded the old lady. “With all this talk goin’ on! I’ll sure tell him where to head in!”
“I think it was Hashknife’s idea, Auntie,” said Peggy wearily.
“It was, eh? And who’s he to tell you what to do? The sooner you quit cryin’ over Joe Rich the better you’ll be off. After all he’s done to you! Peggy, you ought to have sense.”
“There comes Hashknife now!” exclaimed Peggy.
It seemed like a cry of hope. Something seemed to tell her that this tall cowboy riding up the middle of the street, sitting very straight in his saddle, was bringing a ray of sunshine.
He did not seem interested in the crowd. Straight to the hitch-rack he came, dismounted slowly and tied the horse.
As he stepped away from the animal he saw the three women in the wagon and smiled at them as he touched the brim of his hat with his right hand. They watched him angle across the street, going toward the sheriff’s office. Kelsey and Angus McLaren were coming from the office and stopped to speak with Hashknife. After a few moments of conversation they saw Kelsey turn and go back to the office with Hashknife.
Peggy kept her eyes glued to the office door, disregarding the advice of Aunt Emma, who was telling her what she should do. In a few minutes Hashknife came slowly outside and back up the street. It was two o’clock.
Near the entrance of the court-house Hashknife met the Heavenly Triplets, who were anxious to get a front seat. He said something to Lonnie Myers, and after a few moments the three men followed him farther up the street, where they held a short, earnest conversation. Following the conversation the three men went back to the court-house and went inside.
Hashknife leaned against the front of the general store and rolled a smoke. Jack Ralston and Buck West crossed the street from the Pinnacle saloon, and Hashknife called to Jack. The deputy came over to him and they held a short conversation, after which they headed for the sheriff’s office and went inside.
“There’s something goin on,” declared Peggy. “But where are Sleepy and Slim, do you suppose?”
“I can’t even suppose,” replied Aunt Emma. “I hope that inquest won’t take long. Hozie will stay until the last dog is hung, you may be sure of that. And us out here in this hot sun. But that’s a man for yuh!”
“You came in for the inquest, didn’t you, Aunt Emma?” asked Laura.
“I did not—Hozie did. I have no interest in things of that kind.”
“There is Hashknife now!” exclaimed Peggy.
The tall cowboy was standing at the door of the court-house, and none of them had seen him leave the sheriff’s office. After a few moments of deliberation, he went in and climbed the stairs.
The rather spacious court-room was not filled. There were possibly fifty people in the room. Lonnie Myers stood near the doorway at the top of the stairs; Dan Leach was at the opposite corner, at the rear; while Nebrasky Jones sat in a front seat, very erect and very dignified.
Doctor Curzon had already selected a jury when Hashknife came in; and the six men, Curt Bellew, Eph Harper, Jimmy Black of the 3W3, Buck West, Fred Thornton, a feed-store keeper, and Jud Albertson, a blacksmith, were occupying the jury-box.
Fred Coburn, the prosecuting attorney, was the only lawyer in the room. Hashknife moved down to the front and took the only available seat. Across the aisle from him sat Ben Collins. Farther back and across the aisle sat Merrick and Angus McLaren, the Circle M owner on the outside seat.
Old Doctor Curzon conferred with the attorney for several moments before calling the inquest to order.
“I believe we will have the testimony of the sheriff first,” he said, looking around the room.
But neither the sheriff nor deputy were in evidence.
“Will some one call the sheriff?” asked Coburn.
Hashknife got slowly to his feet and half turned in the narrow aisle, while his glance swept the audience. His face seemed a little pale and his lips were shut tightly. Then—
“The sheriff won’t be here,” he said distinctly. “Neither will the deputy. Their evidence is locked up, and I’ve got the key in my pocket.”
For several moments the room was hushed.
“I don’t believe we quite understand you,” said Coburn.
“It was plain English,” replied Hashknife.
“But—but—” spluttered the attorney. No one else spoke; all were too interested for words.
“So we’ll jist have to do without ’em,” said Hashknife. “Yuh see, I’m playin’ safe, folks.”
His lips twisted to a grin, but his eyes were cold, mirthless.
“This is an inquest over the body of a murdered man, a man who was shot down in the performance of his duty, and he was killed at a time when the lives of a lot of folks might have been at stake.
“You’ve merely met here as a matter of form to make it legal to hunt down and destroy Joe Rich. Ain’t I right?”
“Perfectly!” snapped the attorney.
“Uh-huh. Well, how would it be to git a little of that testimony from a real interested party?” Hashknife glanced toward the doorway.
“C’mon in,” he said loudly.
The crowd surged around in their seats, gasping in amazement. Joe Rich was limping down the aisle. He was clad in an old gray shirt and a pair of bib-overalls, old misfitting shoes; his unshaven face, dirty; hair matted. A gasp went up from the crowd as Joe halted beside Hashknife and turned to look at them. He appeared years older, weak. His eyes were bloodshot, and the wrists below the shirt-sleeves were scored from rope burns.
“The main witness,” said Hashknife. “Look him over, folks. Does he look like a man who had killed and robbed?”
Still the crowd did not move. They seemed content to sit still and gaze at the man. Then a man strangled, a chair rattled. It was Ed Merrick, the owner of the Circle M. He had whirled in his chair and started for the door, running like a drunken man, but his way was blocked by Sleepy, Slim Coleman and Lonnie Myers and three guns were shoved in his face.
He stopped, staggered sidewise and whirled around, his gun in his hand. But before he could use it, Sleepy and Lonnie landed on him with a rush and he went down, struggling wildly.
Ben Collins had not moved. He merely flinched when Hashknife leaned across him and took away his gun. He seemed in a daze.
“Got him!” panted Sleepy.
Hashknife looked toward the doorway. Peggy was coming in, her eyes wide, staring down at Joe who had not seen her. Slim touched her on the arm, but she did not stop.
Hashknife beckoned her and she ran down the aisle. Joe turned and saw her coming toward him and the next moment he had her in his arms, while Hashknife hastily sidestepped and took Ben Collins by the arm.
“C’mon, Collins,” he said. “You need exercise.”
“Lemme have him,” said Nebrasky. “Me and Dan can handle him real good. I’ve got a rope handy.”
“All right, Nebrasky.”
Hashknife turned to face the prosecuting attorney.
“What is this all about?” he demanded. “Don’t you realize what—”
“Better than anybody else,” smiled Hashknife. “Here,” he handed a key to Dan Leach. “There’s two more cells empty. Put Collins in one and Merrick in the other.”
“Well, I’ll be darned!” That was about as near as Fred Coburn ever came to using profanity.
Uncle Hozie was pawing at Hashknife, masticating violently and staring at Joe Rich and Peggy.
“Wh-what about him?” demanded Uncle Hozie, pointing at Joe.
“Oh, don’t bother ’em,” grinned Hashknife. “Listen, you folks. I’ve got the whole story. Dutch Siebert is hog-tied at the Circle M and we found Joe Rich in a cellar under the house, where he’s been since the day he rode out of town.
“Joe Rich didn’t get drunk on his weddin’ night. He took two drinks of liquor with Len Kelsey in the Arapaho saloon, and Len slipped him some knockout drops. Joe knew he hadn’t been drunk, but there wasn’t any way to prove it. Merrick practically forced Joe to appoint Kelsey, and it was Merrick’s idea to discredit Joe in order to make Kelsey sheriff. Merrick wanted to own the law.
“Well, he done a ⸺ good job of it.
In fact, he overdone his job. That bridge wasn’t hit by lightning; it was set on fire to let Merrick get off that express car after he had robbed the safe. Collins and Dutch Siebert were there with the horses, and they set the fire. The brakeman ran into ’em and they killed him. Anybody with any sense would have known it couldn’t be a one-man job. The man who robbed that safe couldn’t have killed the brakeman, because he was put out of the way before the train stopped.
“And Joe Rich did not rob Jim Wheeler. That was done by Siebert and Collins, after Merrick had given Wheeler just one thousand dollars. Merrick made out two notes, and Jim Wheeler thought one was a duplicate. He read his own—and signed Merrick’s which read ‘five thousand.’ But Jim Wheeler lost his note, and I found it under the sidewalk, over there by the Pinnacle Saloon. I don’t know how they found it out, but I reckon they did, because last night they mistook Slim Coleman for me and batted him over the head.
“But they overdone the evidence part at both the train and at the bank. I didn’t know Joe Rich, but from what I could learn he was intelligent—too danged intelligent to wear those leather cuffs, lose a knife with his initials on it and all that. Merrick and Jack Ralston caught Joe that first day. That is, they downed his horse, and took him to the Circle M. They had to skin that animal to keep anybody from seein’ it was Joe’s horse.
“And here’s the particularly devilish part of it all: They were tryin’ to pile up a big reward, soak Joe with a murder charge and make it dead or alive. Know what that means? It means that they were going to kill Joe and get that money, make heroes out of themselves and live happy for a long time on the money they’ve got in that cellar. That’s the story, folks.”
The room was in an uproar following the finish of the story. They wanted to get outside where there was more room to talk. But Hashknife knew they were going to do more than talk. They were clattering down the stairs when Hashknife touched Joe on the arm.
“Get down there,” he said softly. “Yo’re the sheriff yet, Joe—Kelsey’s disqualified. Stop ’em at the door. They’ll listen to yuh, kid.”
Joe ran from the room and they heard him going down the steps. Peggy was looking at Hashknife, her eyes filled with tears, as she held out her hands to him.
“Oh, it was wonderful,” she said. “But I knew you would do something wonderful; I knew it, Hashknife.”
“Yeah,” he said bashfully. “It worked out pretty good.”
“Oh, I don’t know how you did it, Hashknife. Everybody was against Joe. Why did you think he was innocent? What made you think it was a plot against him?”
“I looked at you,” said Hashknife simply. “And I figured that a man you’d love—well, I figured right, Peggy.”
They went down the stairs. A crowd had gathered in front of the sheriff’s office, and Joe was talking to them, backed against the door. He was flanked on one side by Slim Coleman, and on the other by Honey Bee. And then the crowd began to disperse. Aunt Emma and Peggy met them at the bottom of the stairs, and Laura kissed Hashknife before he was aware of her intentions.
Angus McLaren came up to Hashknife and held out his hand.
“Har-rtley, I’ve nothin’ to say. Ye take my breath away. If I’ve anythin’ to say about it—Joe’s still sheriff. He talked ’em out of usin’ ropes, and he’s suffered enough to entitle him to somethin’. And there’s a reward for ye, man—the money that was offered for Joe Rich. We’ve got him back, and he’s worth every cent we’re payin’ for him.”
Hashknife smiled and shook his head.
“We don’t want money, McLaren—only enough for two fares East. The rest will help Peggy start housekeepin’ with the man she kept on lovin’, in spite of ⸺ and high water.”
“Two fares East?” queried McLaren.
“Yeah. Yuh see, we missed our train the night we came.”
“Oh, I see.”
“And Sleepy will like it, yuh know. I have to kinda humor him once in a while.”
“But you’re not going away for years and years,” declared Peggy. “Not after what you’ve done, Hashknife. Stay here in the Tumbling River with all of us.”
“Ye fit well in here,” said McLaren.
“And here comes Joe,” said Laura. “We’ll see what he has to say about you going away, Mister Man.”
“And you tell me some time,” smiled Hashknife. “It’ll keep.”
He hurried away to find Sleepy, who was regaling a crowd with a story of the lathered horse.
“It’s shore funny how things work out,” he said. “Here we were headin’ East for a little trip, and all this happens.”
“Are yuh goin’ to keep on headin’ East?” asked one of the crowd.
“Not us,” said Sleepy. “I’m all out of the notion.”
Hashknife turned and went across the street, where he intercepted McLaren.
“We’ve changed our minds about goin’ East,” he said. “We’ll take a couple of horses and saddles instead of them tickets, McLaren.”
“All right,” laughed McLaren. “Where are you goin’, lad?”
“Somewhere on the other side of the hill.”
“What hill, Hartley?”
“The next one,” smiled Hashknife.
Copyright, 1926, by the Butterick Publishing Company in the United States and Great Britain. All Rights reserved.
Copyright, 1926, by the Butterick Publishing Company in the United States and Great Britain. All Rights reserved.