In the meantime Hashknife, Sleepy and Honey were riding through the hills south of the HJ. Hashknife rode a tall roan horse and Jim Wheeler’s saddle and Sleepy bestrode a Roman-nosed buckskin and a saddle which had been purchased for Peggy.
Honey led them out on a high pinnacle where they could look over a great part of the Tumbling River range. To the southwest, about a mile away, was the Circle M ranch, half-hidden in a clump of green trees. To the northwest was the Lazy B, three miles away, which Honey was able to locate definitely by a gash in the hills. They could follow the windings of Tumbling River for miles in each direction. To the east of them was the railroad, winding around through the hills.
They could see the ribbon of smoke from a passing train heading for Kelo. Far down on the wagon-road they could see a lone rider heading for the Circle M. It was Jack Ralston, going after his boots, though they didn’t know it.
“Is it possible to ford the river near the HJ?” asked Hashknife, as they turned to ride back.
“The old ford is about two hundred yards below the bridge,” said Honey. “There’s an old sand-bar. Some of the old road may be washed out by this time, but I reckon yuh could get across all right.”
“Don’tcha like to cross on bridges?” grinned Sleepy.
“Oh, sure. But sometimes I get finicky.”
They swung down off the hills and struck the road, which they followed back to the HJ. Peggy came down to the corral and delivered Cates’ message to Hashknife. The tall cowboy did not change expression, but leaned one elbow against the corral fence, as she told him about the coming of Kelsey, Ralston and Cates to see him.
“He didn’t know you were here,” she explained. “But he mentioned your name, and Mr. Kelsey told him where he could find you.”
“I don’t reckon I know Mr. Cates, Peggy.”
“He said you didn’t, but he wants to see you.”
“Oh, yeah. Thank yuh very much, Peggy. How are yuh feelin’?”
“Better.”
“That’s great. I hope Wong Lee won’t throw me out for the appetite I’ve got tonight.”
Peggy laughed and assured him that Wong Lee loved people who had big appetites. Honey was a trifle curious about what Cates wanted.
“Said he was a Wells-Fargo man, eh? Prob’ly a detective.”
“Prob’ly,” said Hashknife dryly, hanging up his saddle.
“Just about how in ⸺ did he happen to mention you?” wondered Sleepy.
Hashknife did not reply, but Sleepy knew that he was just a trifle curious himself. But both of them realized that they had figured in deals which affected the Wells-Fargo, and it would not be at all strange if an express company investigator had heard of them.
But they did not go to Pinnacle City that night. Hashknife did not seem at all interested in finding Mr. Cates, and Sleepy knew Hashknife too well to insist that they go to town. But Cates was not to be denied a chance to talk with Hashknife. He and Kelsey drove out to the HJ early the following morning and found everybody at breakfast.
Hashknife left the table and met them at the porch. Kelsey introduced them, and Cates lost no time in telling Hashknife who he was and why he was in the Tumbling River country.
“But I can’t do any good here, Hartley. I was talking with the sheriff about the case, and I told him it was a deal that required a man like you. I hadn’t the slightest idea that you were here in the country. Yes, we’ve heard a lot about you and your ability. I am sure the company will pay you well for your services, and all I have to do is to send a wire.”
“But there ain’t nothin’ to it, except catchin’ Joe Rich,” said Hashknife. “I don’t know this country, Cates. When the sheriff’s office, bein’ familiar with the country, can’t get him, what chance would a stranger have? Anyway, I’m not a man-hunter, Cates.”
“No?” Cates lifted his eyebrows slightly. “Perhaps some of the stories I’ve heard were not true.”
“They hardly ever are,” seriously. “No, you’ve got me wrong, Cates. Never in my life did I go out and get a man who was wanted by the law—never took a man with a price on his head. That’s a job for a sheriff or a policeman.”
“Well, maybe that’s true, Hartley. There’s a nice reward for Joe Rich. Means about thirty-five hundred dollars.”
“I don’t want it,” said Hashknife flatly.
“Don’t want it?” Cates laughed huskily. “You’re a queer bird, Hartley. Ain’t you interested in putting criminals behind the bars?”
“Not a ⸺ bit. Don’t believe in the ‘eye for an eye’ theory. Never put a man behind the bars that I didn’t wish it hadn’t happened.”
“Do yuh mean to say that you never collected a reward?” asked Kelsey.
“Never.”
Kelsey laughed shortly.
“You must be pretty ⸺ rich to turn down good money. Cates has told me that you and yore pardner have cleaned up a lot of bad-man outfits, and there’s usually a reward for a bad man.”
“Unless he hides his light under a bushel, Kelsey.”
“Uh-huh. Well, Joe Rich don’t hide his, that’s a cinch.”
Hashknife grinned widely.
“You’ve got to admire him, just the same. He’s operatin’ in his own country, and he ain’t tryin’ to disguise himself a whole lot. And it looks to me as though he’s makin’ a monkey out of yore office.”
“What do yuh mean, Hartley?”
“By stayin’ around here. It don’t look to me as though he was scared of yuh, Kelsey.”
“I see what yuh mean.”
“Well, can’t I induce you to work with us, Hartley?” asked Cates. “I can put you on the pay-roll in thirty minutes after I get back to town. I tell you, I’m helpless; and the sheriff admits that he can’t do anything.”
Hashknife shook his head slowly.
“No-o-o, I’m not interested, Cates. As I said before, it’s just a case of goin’ out and gettin’ a man who knows every blade of grass in this country by its first name. What the sheriff ought to do is to make up a posse and comb this whole country. He must be hidin’ in the valley.”
“Fine chance!” snorted Kelsey. “In the first place I’d have a hard time gettin’ any men. Joe is too popular. And in the second place, with all the friends Joe’s got—well, figure it out for yourself.”
“Do yuh think somebody is hidin’ him, Kelsey?”
“I won’t say that, but it could happen.”
“Yeah, I think so,” nodded Hashknife.
“Well, then you don’t care to come in on the deal, eh?” queried Cates.
“Nope. Oh, I’m much obliged to yuh and all that, but it’s out of my line, Cates. I wish yuh luck.”
Cates laughed sourly.
“I’ll need it, Hartley.”
They shook hands with Hashknife and went back to their buggy. Hashknife watched them ride away and turned to see Sleepy and Honey standing in the doorway.
“We snuck out and listened,” said Honey truthfully.
Hashknife smiled at them and rolled a cigaret.
“It kinda looks to me as though the law is stuck,” observed Honey.
“It is,” smiled Hashknife.
He scratched a match on the steps, lighted his cigaret and turned to Honey.
“Honey, who is there in this country that likes Joe Rich and didn’t like Jim Wheeler?”
Honey scratched his elbow on his hip and blinked.
“Never heard of anythin’ like that,” he said. “Everybody liked Jim, and everybody liked Joe. What’sa idea, Hashknife?”
“Just curiosity. Everybody knows that Joe Rich stole that five thousand from Jim Wheeler, and the sheriff thinks somebody is hidin’ Joe.”
“I see yore idea. He thinks Joe is bein’ taken care of by somebody, eh?”
“That’s the only solution, Honey. He’s got to eat and have a place to hide out. It must be somebody that likes Joe too well to turn him in for the reward—somebody that don’t care about the loss of the HJ.”
“By golly, that’s right! But who could it be?”
“That’s it,” grumbled Sleepy.
“Well, he could ’a’ made out long enough to have robbed the train,” said Honey. “He’s prob’ly high-tailin’ it out of the country right now. It looks to me as though he’s about twenty-five thousand dollars ahead of the game, and a man’s a ⸺ fool who never knows when he’s got enough.”
“Easy money,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “No man ever quits takin’ easy money.”
“Yuh don’t think he’ll try it again, do yuh?” asked Honey.
“From my point of view—yeah, I think he will, Honey.”
Honey snorted and threw away his cigaret.
“I’ll betcha he’s pullin’ away from here awful fast. Joe ain’t no fool. I’ll bet he knows when he’s had enough.”
“Might be,” said Hashknife. “But I doubt it. Suppose we ride over to town and have a look around.”
Sleepy and Honey were more than willing. They told the girls they would be back for supper. Peggy drew Hashknife aside and wanted to know what the sheriff had in mind. Hashknife told her frankly that Cates was a detective, and wanted him to help find Joe Rich.
“Just why did he want you to help?” she asked.
“Well, yuh see, it’s like this,” lied Hashknife. “Kelsey’s got the idea that folks around here are too friendly with Joe to hunt him. Me and Sleepy, bein’ strangers to Joe, might not be so particular.”
“Oh, I see. And are you going to help him?”
“No-o-o-o—I’m goin’ to help us find him, Peggy.”
“But what good will that do?”
“Any ‘good’ is better than we’ve got, Peggy.”
“I suppose it is,” she sighed. “But I can’t see where it will help anybody. If the law gets him—”
“Mebbe—and mebbe not.”
“What do you mean, Hashknife?”
“I was just thinkin’ out loud, Peggy. Yuh quit worryin’ about things.” He patted her on the arm. “We’ll be back for supper, and I’ll want to see yuh grinnin’.”
Hashknife went out to his horse, which was the one Jim Wheeler had ridden the day he was killed. Hashknife noticed that the animal was a trifle sore-footed; so he examined its hoofs and found that it wore no shoes.
He pulled the saddle off and put it on a chunky bay, turning the sore-footed one back in the corral. The bay was shod in front.
“Jim said somethin’ about’ goin’ to have that bronc shod,” said Honey. “I remember him speakin’ about it a week before he was killed.”
“I hate to see a horse limp,” said Hashknife. “I’d a lot rather walk.”
They rode to Pinnacle City and Hashknife left Sleepy and Honey at the Pinnacle Saloon, where several more cowboys were arguing at the bar. After inquiring at the store, Hashknife found old Doctor Curzon’s office.
The old doctor was not busy. He considered Hashknife gravely when Hashknife asked him about the death of Jim Wheeler.
“Well, just what did you wish to know?” he asked.
“All about it,” smiled Hashknife. “They tell me Jim Wheeler died from concussion of the brain.”
“You might call it that. His skull was crushed. Wonder he lived at all.”
“And they tell me that his skull was crushed by the rocks.”
“No doubt of it. I don’t believe you told me your name.”
“Hartley. I’m out at the HJ ranch—Jim Wheeler’s place.”
“Oh, yes. No, I don’t think there is any doubt of Wheeler’s head having been crushed by the rocks. You know how a body would bound, fastened by one foot to a stirrup.”
“The rocks cut kinda deep, didn’t they, Doc?”
“Mm-m-m-m—well, yes.”
“Do yuh know—it’s a funny thing, Doc?”
“What is?”
“The fact that there ain’t a ⸺ rock as big as a pea on that whole stretch of road where Wheeler was dragged.”
“You say there isn’t?”
“Well,” smiled Hashknife, “I said ‘there ain’t’. It amounts to the same thing, I suppose. Your English is better than mine.”
“But there must be rocks along there,” insisted the doctor. “Every one seemed to take it for granted that—”
“That’s the trouble, Doc—takin’ it for granted. I looked it over the day after the rain, when the dust was settled; and it’s as smooth as a billiard-table; not even a humpy spot on the road or along it. Go out and see for yourself.”
“Well, well! No, I’ll take your word for it. You don’t look like a person who would lie about it. You have very good eyes, my friend.”
“Thanks,” smiled Hashknife.
“But to get back to Jim Wheeler. I believe it was Joe Rich who discovered him first after the accident. They tell queer tales about Joe Rich. I knew him.”
“Like him?”
“Very much. He—I believe he said that the foot was still in the stirrup.”
“This wound on the head,” said Hashknife. “Just where was it the worst, Doc?”
“Nearly on the crown. In fact it extended from just above the left ear to the top of the head. Of course, it is easily possible for the horse to have struck him with a sharp-shod hoof.”
“On top of the head, Doc?”
“Well, barely possible. Come to think of it, the wound did have that appearance; as though a horseshoe might have crushed the skull.”
“His horse wasn’t shod, Doc.”
“It wasn’t shod?”
The old doctor ran his hand through his white hair and squinted gravely.
“Hadn’t been for weeks,” said Hashknife.
“You are a detective?” asked the doctor quickly.
Hashknife smiled and shook his head.
“No, Doc; just curious.”
“Mm-m-m-m-m,” the doctor studied the ceiling of his office. “No rocks, no shoes. But the man had been dragged, Hartley. The skin showed evidence of that, and his shirt was rubbed through. More than that, his leg had been broken from a twist, and the pull of the stirrup.”
“Look at it this way,” suggested Hashknife. “Suppose Jim Wheeler met a man, who stopped him. This man strikes Wheeler over the head with a gun, knocking him off the saddle. Then this man robs him. Perhaps this man hooked one of Wheeler’s feet in the stirrup, struck the horse and let it run away. Or, again, the foot might have hung in the stirrup when the man fell from the horse. Wouldn’t it look as though it had been an accident?”
“No doubt of it, my friend. And in that case, it would appear that Joe Rich had not only robbed Jim Wheeler, but had murdered him as well.”
“There’s a lot of ways to look at it, Doc,” smiled Hashknife, as he shook hands with the doctor. “I’m sure much obliged to yuh for yore help in this matter. Yuh would be doin’ me another favor, if yuh don’t tell anybody what we talked about.”
“The ethics of my profession preclude such a thing.”
“Well, thanks just the same, Doc. So long.”
Hashknife went back to the Pinnacle, where he found Honey and Sleepy buying drinks for the Heavenly Triplets, the three boys from the Flying H. They tried to get Hashknife to join them, but he was in no mood to join their festivities. After telling Sleepy he was going back to the ranch, he mounted and rode out of town.
Hashknife was satisfied after his talk with the doctor, that Jim Wheeler had not died through an accident. That Joe Rich should have found Wheeler dragged to unconsciousness and have robbed him was too much for Hashknife to believe. Rich had been knocked down by Wheeler, and Hashknife, not knowing Rich, would not have any idea of Rich’s nature.
As Hashknife neared the spot where Wheeler had been found he saw two saddled horses standing near the road. He drew rein and rode slowly along, wondering where the riders might be. Then he saw them about fifty feet off the road, looking around in some weeds and low brush.
They were Len Kelsey and Jack Ralston. They did not see Hashknife until he was almost up to their horses. Then they left off their search and came over to him.
“Howdy, gents,” grinned Hashknife.
Kelsey showed a slight embarrassment but nodded pleasantly.
“Just lookin’ around,” he said, as if his actions demanded an explanation. “This is where they found Jim Wheeler, yuh know.”
“That’s what they tell me. I reckon the rain wiped out any tracks yuh might expect to find.”
“Yeah, it did,” said Ralston quickly. “We found that out.”
“No sign of Joe Rich, eh?”
“Not a ⸺ sign!” snapped Kelsey, swinging into his saddle.
“I reckon he’s a pretty smart lad,” said Hashknife. “What became of the detective?”
“He’s in town,” said Kelsey. “You should have taken him up on that deal, Hartley. Made good wages out of it, even if yuh couldn’t find Joe Rich.”
“No-o-o-o, I didn’t want the job. Joe’s got too many good friends around here, Kelsey; and I might stop a bullet, if I knew too much.”
“There’s a ⸺ of a lot of truth in that, Hartley.”
“Sure,” grinned Hashknife. “I’m no fool.”
“Playin’ safe, eh?” said Ralston. “Well, I don’t blame yuh. When a feller’s a stranger, he can’t be too careful.”
“I’ll watch my own hide,” declared Hashknife. “I dunno where that feller, Cates, heard all that stuff about me. He must ’a’ got me mixed with somebody else. Anyway, he’s all wrong if he thinks I’m huntin’ rewards.”
“Well,” laughed Kelsey, “he told me he didn’t believe half he had heard about yuh.”
“I’m shore glad about that,” said Hashknife simply. “Well, I’ve got to be movin’ along, gents. Good huntin’ to yuh.”
Hashknife rode on toward the ranch, while Kelsey and his deputy went on to Pinnacle City. Kelsey swore softly at sight of the Heavenly Triplets’ horses at the Pinnacle rack.
“There’s two HJ broncs there, too,” observed Ralston. “That means Honey Bee and Stevens. I don’t reckon we’ll have much to do with the Pinnacle as long as they’re holdin’ forth.”
And they were surely holding forth. Sleepy and Honey still had a little money, and the boys from the Flying H were spending their next month’s wages. William H. Cates, the detective, had fallen into their toils and was enjoying it.
Also, Mr. Cates was marveling at the amount of raw liquor they could consume without showing it. Mr. Cates was rather proud of his own ability, but he was beginning to have a hunch that before long he was going to see a lot more men than were actually in the room.
“Thish is lots of fun,” he announced.
“Par’ner, you ain’t started,” declared Lonnie. “You stay with us and we’ll show yuh bush’ls ’f di’monds. Oh, yessir, you’ll shee lots of ’m. We’ll show yuh levity, y’ betcha.”
Supper time came but none of them was hungry. Darkness came down upon Pinnacle City, and still those six men leaned on the bar, their toasts becoming more and more elaborate. Then Lonnie leaned his forehead against the bar and wept bitterly.
“Thish is all there ish,” he announced. “Nothin’ t’ do. Spen’ all day gettin’ drunk, and there’s nothin’ t’ do but go home.”
“O-o-o-oh, my!” wailed Nebrasky. “Tha’s a fac’. The jigger that wrote ‘Home, Sweet Home’ must ’a’ never got out. Wha’s to be done, I’d crave to get an answer? No entertainment? Can’t you think of anythin’, Misser Detective?”
Not so Cates. He clung to the bar with both hands.
“Let’s all go out to the ranch,” suggested Nebrasky.
“Wha’ for?” queried Honey. “Uncle Hozie’d hop our necks.”
“Le’s go for ride,” choked Cates. “Need —uk—air.”
“That,” said Sleepy owlishly, “is a shuggestion.”
“I know!” exploded Lonnie. “C’mere.”
They followed him outside, much to the relief of the bartender, and Lonnie unfolded his scheme. There were many drawbacks, but each and every one was overcome.
With great difficulty Lonnie Myers and Dan Leach secured their horses at the hitch-rack, and they all weaved their erratic way down to the Pinnacle livery-stable, where they circled to the rear. A shed with a long sloping roof had been added to the stable at some remote time, and within this stable was the hearse.
The door was merely fastened with a hasp. They rolled the old hearse out into the yard and tied two lariat ropes to the end of the tongue. The ancient equipage of the dead was resplendent in a fresh coat of varnish and the four horsetail plumes waved boldly from the corners of the top.
They put Cates inside, because he was unable to climb to the top, while Honey Bee, Sleepy and Nebrasky crowded together on the narrow seat. It was quite a task to get both horses pulling at the same time, but once they got the old hearse rolling it was no trick to keep it rolling.
Around they went into the main street, gaining momentum each moment; so much momentum, in fact, that the horses took notice of things and seemed to desire more distance between themselves and this creaking equipage with the yelping cowboys and flowing plumes.
Lonnie’s mount was traveling one side of the street, while Dan’s mount seemed to prefer the opposite sidewalk, while the hearse took a fairly straight route up the middle of the street, until almost opposite the Pinnacle City bank. Then Lonnie’s horse got tangled up in a hitch-rack and Dan’s whirled and started the opposite direction.
Crash! The front wheels of the hearse jack-knifed and struck the sidewalk.
Crash! The end of the swinging tongue took out one of the front windows of the bank, while the hearse lurched to a standstill with the front wheels against the front of the bank building.
Sleepy was thrown off the seat when the wheels struck the sidewalk and he landed on his hands and knees in the street. The sound of the wreck was audible for quite a distance, and in a few minutes the hearse was surrounded by a curious crowd. There was hardly enough light to see what had happened.
Sleepy staggered across the street and sat down on the sidewalk, feeling very foolish over the whole thing. A horseman rode past him and stopped at the hitch-rack. It was Lonnie Myers. Sleepy went over to him.
“That ⸺ thing headed into the bank,” he told Lonnie.
“My ⸺! It did? Whatcha know about that? Where’s the rest of the gang?”
“Let’s go over and have a look.”
No one in the crowd seemed to know who had done it. Kelsey was there, as was Jack Ralston.
“Somebody got pretty ⸺ smart, it seems to me,” growled Kelsey.
“Hey, Kelsey!” yelled a voice, “there’s a body inside the hearse.”
“My ⸺, it’s Cates!” whispered Lonnie. “Let’s get away from here before we all get arrested.”
They hurried back to the Pinnacle bar where they found Dan Leach and Nebrasky. Nebrasky had a lot of skin off his long nose and Dan limped in one leg. None of them mentioned what had just taken place. They had a drink, after which Lonnie leaned on the bar and wondered where Honey might be.
“The last time I seen him he was goin’ toward the bank,” said Sleepy dryly. “Prob’ly wanted to borrow some money.”
Jack Ralston came in and looked the boys over, but did not say anything. Perhaps he had a fair idea as to who had taken the hearse, but he had no evidence. Apparently these boys were merely having a friendly drink.
“Have any of you gents seen that feller Cates?” he asked.
“Cates?” Lonnie screwed up his eyes. “Oh, yeah—the detective! Why, I think he died, didn’t he?” Lonnie turned to Nebrasky.
“Oh, yeah—Cates. Believe he did, Lonnie.”
“Uh-huh,” Lonnie turned to Ralston. “Yeah, he died. Have a drink, Jack?”
“Nope.”
Ralston turned on his heel and went out.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” laughed Nebrasky. “Wait’ll they find him.”
“They found him,” said Sleepy. “We’ll probably have to pay for that busted window.”
“But wasn’t it worth it?” chuckled Nebrasky. “My ⸺, I never went higher in my life. There goes the hearse.”
They walked to the door and saw several men pulling the hearse back to its shed. They could see a crowd in front of the bank, and apparently there was a man on a ladder, nailing boards over the broken window.
“Where in ⸺ is Honey?” asked Sleepy. “By golly, we’re shy one man!”
“That’s right. Let’s go find him.”
They wended their way to the Arapaho saloon, but did not find him there, and then they made a systematic search of every place they could think of.
They finally came back past the bank, where they found the object of their search sitting on the sidewalk, holding his head in his hands. Lonnie almost fell over him in the dark.
“Now, where in ⸺ have you been keepin’ youself?” demanded Lonnie. “We’ve been lookin’ for yuh for about a week.”
This was hardly true, because the accident had not happened more than twenty minutes previous.
Honey lifted his head and wiggled his arms.
“I’m all right, I reckon,” he said huskily. “Didn’t any of you ord’nary drunks see me go into the bank?”
“See yuh go into the bank?” grunted Nebrasky.
“Abs’lutely! Right through the window! I landed on my chin right in front of the deposit window with one of them horsetail plumes in my right hand.”
“And didn’t get killed?” wondered Nebrasky.
“Oh, ⸺, I got killed all right, as far as that’s concerned. Oh, my! I heard a lot of folks talkin’ about the busted window, while I’m crawlin’ around on my hands and knees, tryin’ to find a way out.
“And then I got the scare of my life,” Honey laughed foolishly. “I found a man in there.”
“Yuh found a man in there?” queried Sleepy quickly.
“Uh-huh. Honest Injun, cross m’ heart. He’s there yet, too, By golly, it scared me so much that I got right up and walked out the back door. Funniest feelin’ yuh—”
“Hold on a minute!” snorted Sleepy. “You walked out the back door, Honey?”
“Shore did, Sleepy.”
“Was it unlocked?”
“Must ’a’ been—I jist turned the knob. I was on my hands and knees, kinda crawlin’ and feelin’ along, when I got hold of somethin’ that feels a lot like a man’s legs. I keeps on feelin’, and I keeps on a-risin’, until my hands touch his face, and then I hightailed it outside. I fell down over a box and bumped my head against the building, but kept on goin’. I reckon I plumb circled this side of the street, and just came back here a little while ago.”
“Yo’re drunk,” declared Nebrasky.
“I was drunk,” corrected Honey. “But by golly, I was sober a-plenty when I felt that jigger.”
“Is he there yet?” asked Lonnie.
“⸺, I tell yuh he’s roped to the chair!”
“Wait a minute,” said Sleepy. “You boys go over to the Pinnacle and let me handle this, will yuh?”
“Go to it,” said Lonnie. “C’mon, you fellers.”
Sleepy went down the street to the sheriff’s office. He was perfectly sober and none the worse for their escapade, except for a slightly skinned knee. Both Kelsey and Ralston were at the office when Sleepy came in.
“Yuh better investigate the bank,” said Sleepy. “I just came past there, and I thought I heard a man groanin’.”
“Yeah?” Kelsey grinned knowingly. “Yuh did, eh? Just what kind of a game are you punchers tryin’ to pull off now?”
“Oh, well, go ahead and be a ⸺ fool,” sighed Sleepy, turning back to the door. “I’m tellin’ yuh what I heard, tha’sall.”
But Kelsey stopped him at the door.
“Yuh think yuh heard a man groanin’, eh?”
“It don’t make any difference,” said Sleepy. “Go on to bed. I’ll find the man that owns the bank, and he’ll probably be interested.”
“If this is a joke—” warned Kelsey picking up his hat.
“I better go and get Warner, the cashier,” said Ralston. “He rooms at MacRae’s place.”
Ralston trotted down the street while Kelsey followed Sleepy back to the front of the bank. They listened at the broken window, which had been barred with some planks, but could hear nothing.
“Yuh probably heard the wind blowing,” said Kelsey.
“What wind?” asked Sleepy.
Kelsey didn’t explain just which wind he had meant, as there was not a breath of air stirring. In a few minutes Ralston joined them, panting from his run.
“Warner ain’t been there since supper, Len. He was workin’ tonight, they said.”
“And Old Man Ludlow, the president, is on a trip to the coast,” said Len. “How in ⸺ are we goin’ to find out anythin’?”
“Smash out another window,” suggested Ralston.
“How about the back door?” asked Sleepy.
They went around to the back and found the door sagging open. Kelsey swore softly and led the way inside, where they lighted matches to guide them. And they found just what Honey Bee had found—a man roped to a chair and gagged. It was Warner, the cashier, his eyes blinking foolishly at the light of Kelsey’s match, while Ralston took a pocket-knife and severed the lariat rope which bound him.
Warner was apparently unhurt. After they untied the gag he worked his jaw painfully, rubbed his lips and managed to get back a measure of his speech.
Sleepy found a lamp, which he lighted, and the three men watched the cashier stretch his arms and legs, grimacing as the returning circulation pained him.
“You better send a wire to Old Man Ludlow,” he said huskily. “Palace Hotel, San Francisco. The bank has been cleaned out.”
“Cleaned out, Warner?” asked Kelsey.
“Look at the vault door.”
It was wide open. The sheriff did not investigate. Sleepy stepped over and peered inside. It was an old-fashioned vault with the ordinary combination. Time locks had not come to Pinnacle City yet.
“How many in the gang?” asked Kelsey.
“One,” Warner spat painfully and rubbed his lips. “One man, Sheriff. I was working tonight. I used the back door. When I unlocked it and stepped outside, this man confronted me with a gun and forced me back inside.
“I refused to open the vault—at first. But he produced some dynamite and told me was going to blow it open. He said he would tie me close enough to see it bust. There wasn’t anything for me to do except to open it. Then he roped me to a chair, put a gag in my mouth and helped himself. There was enough light through that side window for me to see that he put everything in a sack.”
“Masked?” asked Kelsey.
“Yes. I wish one of you would wire Ludlow. What was that crash that broke the front window?”
“Some drunken cowboys,” growled Kelsey. “How long before that did the robbery take place?”
“Possibly fifteen minutes. Might have been longer. But there was another man in here after that crash. I couldn’t see what he looked like, but he felt all over me and then I heard him go out through the back door.”
Kelsey squinted closely at Sleepy, but Sleepy looked very innocent. His blue eyes did not waver for an instant.
“Pretty ⸺ queer!” snorted Kelsey.
“Ain’t it?” agreed Sleepy. “Queerest thing I ever heard.”
“It might have been the man who tied me up,” said Warner.
Warner was a small, thin-faced man, slightly stooped, wearing steel-bowed glasses. He took them from his pocket and hooked the bows over his ears, his hands trembling.
“Might have been,” agreed Sleepy. “Prob’ly took him quite a while to clean out the place. How much did he get?”
“I can’t tell you that, sir. I think Mr. Ludlow would like to hear about it as soon as possible.”
“No hurry; he can’t help any,” said Kelsey. “Warner, did you get a good look at this robber?”
“It was dark in here. He held a match in his left hand while I worked the combination.”
“Did, eh?” Kelsey seemed interested. “Well, how much of him didja see, Warner?”
“Not much, I’m afraid; only that arm in the light. You see, he stood rather behind me.”
“All right; and didja see that arm well enough to tell what it looked like?”
“Yes, I saw it well enough, I think. It—it looked like a—a—well, just like an arm,” he finished weakly.
“That’s fine,” sneered Kelsey. “All we’ve got to do is to find a man who has a left arm that looks like an arm. Didn’t yuh see his clothes, his hands, his gun?”
“Yes, I—I saw his gun. Certainly I saw his gun.”
“Was it like this one?” Kelsey jerked out his Colt and held it in front of Warner.
“No, not exactly. I think it had a white handle.”
“Ah-hah! Now, about his sleeve, Warner. Did he wear leather cuffs?”
“Yes, yes! I forgot them. Black, I think. Perhaps they merely looked black. But the matchlight—there were silver ornaments, Sheriff. I remember now—silver stars. It’s funny I didn’t remember before.”
“Uh-huh. We’ll go and send that wire to Ludlow, Warner. Lock that back door, will yuh, Warner. Not much use, at that; nothin’ left to steal. Mebbe yuh better shut that vault door and spin the combination.”
Warner went with the sheriff and deputy, while Sleepy cut across the street and found the rest of the boys in front of the Pinnacle. From there they could see the light in the bank, and they were burning with curiosity.
“Forget what you know, Honey,” warned Sleepy. “The rest of yuh don’t know a thing; sabe? The bank was cleaned out by a lone bandit fifteen minutes ahead of our smash. The man Honey found was Warner, the cashier. He was roped and gagged, but he wasn’t knocked out.”
“F’r ⸺’s sake!” snorted Honey. “That was it, eh?”
“Yeah, and we better all head for home,” advised Sleepy. “We don’t know a thing. The bank is as clean as a hound’s tooth and the man who cleaned it out wore silver stars on his cuffs and used a white-handled gun. Let’s mosey.”
They all got their horses and headed out of town, the Heavenly Triplets going to the Flying H, while Honey and Sleepy rode swiftly out to the HJ where they woke Hashknife in the bunk-house and told him their story. He sat up in bed and smoked a cigaret, his lean fingers scratching at his unruly hair.
“It looks to me as though Joe Rich missed his callin’ when he got himself elected sheriff,” he said slowly. “That boy shore is featherin’ his nest. And yuh had Mr. Cates laid out in the hearse, eh?”
“Fit to be buried,” nodded Sleepy. “I reckon he was the only one that didn’t do a high dive. That little cashier shore was scared. The robber told him he’d either open the safe or get a front seat at the explosion. And he held a match while the cashier worked the combination. By golly, it’s so easy to do a thing like that, that I wonder why men work for a dollar a day! It’s shore easy money.”
“Easy to get, uneasy to keep, Sleepy.”
“Yea-a-a-ah! Who in ⸺ is goin’ to get it away from him? You can preach honesty to me all yuh want to, cowboy, but when I see a job done as easy as that one—”
“Aw, c’mon to bed, and stop yappin’. I want to think.”
Nothing had ever happened in Pinnacle City that caused as much excitement as the robbery of the bank. It was something that affected nearly everybody in the Tumbling River country. As Uncle Hozie expressed it—
“There’s a lot of ⸺ flat pocketbooks right now.”
The news spread swiftly, and by noon of the following day the town was filled with range-folk. The sheriff came in for the usual amount of criticism, and a number of the cattlemen sat in his office, trying to help him devise ways and means of putting a stop to Joe Rich’s activities. A wire had been received from Old Man Ludlow, the president of the bank, who was on his way back to Pinnacle.
Uncle Hozie mourned the loss of eight thousand dollars, while Ed Merrick swore himself red in the face over half that amount. He had drawn out five thousand to lend to Jim Wheeler, thus cutting down his bank deposit.
But they were all losers; some of them more so than others, and Joe Rich’s latest robbery bid fair to make times rather hard in Tumbling River. It was a privately owned bank, and they knew that Ludlow could not make good their losses.
William H. Cates took the first train out of town. The sheriff had hauled him out of the hearse and put him to bed. The following morning he was filled with remorse over it all, but strangely enough he was unable to tell just whom he had been with. He told the sheriff to do his little best and boarded a train for the north.
An examination of the vault disclosed the fact that the robber had taken every cent of money, but had not bothered with any papers. Warner refused even to make a guess at how much money was in the vault, but admitted that it was more than was usually carried. The bank remained closed.
Hashknife, Sleepy and Honey came back to town that forenoon, but the Heavenly Triplets did not show up. Merrick talked with Hashknife about the robbery. Hashknife was not interested to any great extent.
A little later on Hashknife was talking with Kelsey, when the depot agent came to Kelsey.
“Here’s a funny thing,” said the agent. “Remember the night the bridge caught fire?”
“Sure,” nodded Kelsey. “What about it?”
“That night,” resumed the agent, “the rear brakeman of the cattle-train went back to flag the passenger, and he’s never been seen since.”
“What do yuh mean?” Kelsey was evidently puzzled.
“Just what I said. I don’t know how he was passed up. The train was held here quite a while, but the storm was bad, and nobody needed him, I suppose. Down at the bridge both trains were stalled quite a while, and there was no need of whistling in the flag from the cattle-train.
“Oh, the company missed him the next day. But he was what is known as a boomer brakeman, and they just thought he had stepped out without drawing his pay. They do that once in a while—those boomers. But later on they got to checking up on things, and the conductor remembered that he hadn’t seen this man since the night at the bridge. Ransome is the division point, you see; so he didn’t have much farther to go. The reason they watered that stock here was because there were better facilities than at Ransome.”
“Well, that’s kinda queer,” said Kelsey.
“I saw him go out to flag,” said Hashknife. “I remember that freight conductor blamed the passenger crew for runnin’ past the flag. They said they never seen it.”
“Well, what do you suppose happened to him?” queried Kelsey.
“Search me,” said the depot agent. “All I know is what I heard over the wire.”
Hashknife left the sheriff and found Sleepy and Honey. He told them what the depot agent had said. A few minutes later they were heading for the railroad bridge, going through the country where Hashknife and Sleepy had walked the night of the bridge-fire. They tied their horses to the right-of-way fence, crawled through and climbed up to the track level.
The railroad had been graded along the side of the hill, so that the opposite side dropped off about twenty or thirty feet, where the brush grew thick along the fence. Hashknife estimated where the rear end of the cattle-train would have been, and they walked back along the track to the first curve.
Just beyond that there was considerable seepage of water on the lower side, where grew a profusion of tules and cattails, mingled with wild-roses and willows. The bank was rather abrupt along here and heavy brush grew between the track and the upper fence.
Hashknife slid cautiously down this bank, hooking his heels into the broken rock. There was more water, covered with a greenish slime.
“Hook yore heels, cowboy,” laughed Sleepy. “One little mistake, and you take a green-water bath.”
Hashknife worked down to the water edge and went slowly along about fifty feet. Then he stopped and sat back against the bank. For several moments he studied the tangle of brush and green water. Then he turned his head and looked up at the two men above him.
“I’ve found him,” he said.
“You’ve found him?” gasped Honey.
“Uh-huh. One foot still on dry land. I thought it was just an old shoe. He must ’a’ went in head first. There’s his lantern in the muck—just the bottom of it stickin’ out.”
Hashknife turned around and climbed up the bank. From the track level he could not see the shoe nor the lantern. He heaped up a pile of stones beside the track to mark the spot.
“Ain’t we goin’ to take him out?” asked Sleepy.
“Not me,” replied Hashknife. “That’s the sheriff’s job.”
They rode back to the ranch and were just debating what to do, when Ben Collins came along on his way to town from the Circle M. Honey called to him and he stopped at the HJ gate.
“You’ll probably see Kelsey in town,” said Honey. “Tell him we found the brakeman of that cattle-train. He’s in the ditch on the west side of the railroad track, about three hundred yards south of the bridge. We heaped up a pile of rocks along the track, and the body is straight down from that. Tell Kelsey he’ll need help to get the body.”
Collins stared at Honey, his mouth agape. It was all Greek to him, it seemed.
“Well, I’ll be ⸺!” he snorted. “Let me get this straight.”
He repeated what Honey had told him, making a few mistakes, which Honey rectified.
“But who killed him?” he demanded.
“We don’t know, Ben.”
“Well, I’ll be ⸺! All right, I’ll tell him.”
Ben spurred his horse to a gallop and was soon out of sight.
“They’ll have to come through this way to get him, won’t they?” asked Hashknife.
“Unless they want to carry the body across the railroad bridge. Good gosh, things look worse for Joe Rich every day! I suppose he ran into the brakeman, eh?”
“Probably,” nodded Hashknife. “Of course he might have fell off the track that night. The wind was awful. If he struck his head on the rocks and slid into the water he’d die pretty quick. We’ll have to wait until they take him out.”
But they didn’t have to wait long. Inside an hour Kelsey, Ralston, Ben Collins and Abe Liston, of the 3W3, rode in at the HJ. No one had told Peggy and Laura about the dead man, and their curiosity was aroused by the advent of the sheriff and his men.
“Man got hit by a train out by the bridge,” said Hashknife.
“Was he killed?” asked Laura.
“I reckon he was.”
Hashknife went out and talked with Kelsey, who seemed a trifle sore about their finding the body.
“I suppose yuh fooled around and wiped out all the clues,” he said complainingly.
“Well, I dunno,” smiled Hashknife. “We didn’t go near the body, Sheriff.”
“Didn’t, eh? Seems to me you was in a ⸺ of a sweat to get out there ahead of the law.”
“Did look thataway.” Hashknife did not cease smiling, with his mouth, although his eyes were serious.
“Just how do yuh figure this yore affair, Hartley?”
“You do the figurin’,” suggested Hashknife.
The sheriff glanced keenly at Hashknife’s eyes and decided to drop the subject.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “Yuh might come along and help us take the body out.”
“Yeah, I might,” said Hashknife. “But I don’t think I will. You’ve got plenty men with yuh.”
“Uh-huh.” Kelsey did not press the invitation, but rode away, followed by his three men.
Honey Bee grinned widely and did a shuffle in the dirt.
“That’s tellin’ ’em, cowboy. You’ve got Kelsey’s goat. I could see it in his face.”
“Let’s go down to the bunk-house,” suggested Hashknife. “Them darned girls ask too many questions. I reckon they suspect that this man was killed at that hold-up, and I don’t want to worry Peggy any more. She takes it too serious. By golly, she acts as though folks blamed her for what Joe Rich has done.”
“That’s Peggy,” sighed Honey. “Whitest little girl that ever lived. Suppose we have a three-handed game of seven-up for a million dollars a corner.”
“You two go ahead,” said Hashknife. “I’ve got to think a while.”
“Don’t yore head ever hurt yuh?” asked Honey. “You’ve done an awful lot of thinkin since I knew yuh, Hashknife.”
“He has to think an awful lot to get a little ways,” grinned Sleepy.
Sleepy and Honey went into the bunk-house, and Laura wig-wagged to Hashknife from the veranda of the ranch-house.
“What about this dead man?” she demanded.
“Dunno yet, Laura. He’s dead, but we don’t know what killed him.”
He told her about the missing brakeman. Laura had been doing a little thinking, and she confided to Hashknife that she was afraid that Jim Wheeler had been killed by the man who stole the money.
“Aunt Emma thinks so, too,” she said. “We had a talk about it the other day. Joe was out here that day, you know. He came to tell Peggy good-by. His lips were cut badly and he looked awful bad. But Peggy didn’t tell him good-by. She was crying and didn’t hear him go away. She thought he was still there. We found out later that Uncle Jim had knocked Joe down on the street in Pinnacle City.”
Hashknife nodded over this. He had heard it before.
“But she still loves Joe Rich.”
“I honestly think she does,” agreed Laura.
“Did yuh hear about them findin’ Joe’s pocket-knife in the express car?”
Laura hadn’t heard about it.
“The knife that Peggy gave him for his birthday? Oh, what an awful thing to do! Criminals always make mistakes, don’t they?”
“Yeah, they shore do, Laura—bad ones, too.”
Peggy came out on the veranda and sat down with them.
“Tell me about that bank robbery,” she said to Hashknife.
The tall cowboy sighed and reshaped the crown of his hat.
“There ain’t much to tell, Peggy. A lone man met the cashier at the rear door of the bank, forced him back, made him open the vault and then roped and gagged the cashier. They say he got away with a lot of money. Wasn’t anybody hurt.”
“What was the description of that man, Hashknife?”
“Wasn’t any—much. Yuh see, it was dark in there.”
“Much?” sighed Peggy. “Oh, I know!” she suddenly blurted. “You try to cover it. Please don’t do that, Hashknife.”
Hashknife shook his head sadly.
“That cashier was probably scared stiff, Peggy. Power of suggestion made him see what the express messenger saw—the black leather cuffs with the silver stars. Discount all that stuff. Keep smilin’, I tell yuh. A-a-aw, shucks!”
Hashknife jumped to his feet and walked away. Peggy was crying, and Hashknife couldn’t stand tears. He went down and sat against the stable, his hat pulled down over his eyes. And he was still there when the sheriff and his men came back, bringing the body of the brakeman, strapped across the saddle of Jack Ralston’s horse, while Jack rode behind Kelsey. The body was covered with a dirty tarpaulin.
Hashknife went out to meet them, and Kelsey thanked him for the marker.
“It shore was well hidden,” he said, “and them rocks helped a lot. I reckon this will kinda swell the reward for Joe Rich, Hartley. This man was shot. Yuh can even see the powder marks on his coat, so it must ’a’ been close work. We’ll shore ask for Joe Rich dead or alive now.”
They rode on, and Hashknife leaned against the stable, his mind working swiftly. Dead or alive!
“Oh, I was afraid of that,” he told himself.
He saddled his horse and went to the bunk-house, where he called to the boys.
“I’m goin’ to town,” he told them. “They just went past with that body. The man was shot at close range, and they’ll offer a reward for Joe Rich, dead or alive. I want to get a look at that body. Be back for supper, and for gosh sake, don’t let Peggy know what they said!”
Hashknife galloped away from the ranch, but did not try to overtake the sheriff and his party. They took the body straight to the doctor’s office. It happened that Doctor Curzon was the county coroner, and the case would require an inquest.
But the sheriff and his party did not stay more than fifteen minutes; so Hashknife waited until they were out of sight before he rode up to the doctor’s little home.
The old doctor greeted him gravely and started to tell him about the latest tragedy, but Hashknife stopped him.
“I know all about it, Doc. What about that bullet? Did it go all the way through?”
The doctor nodded.
“Yes, it did.”
Hashknife sighed. He had hopes that the caliber of the bullet might give him a clue. The doctor showed him the body. There was no mistaking the corpse. It was that of the brakeman, but little changed from immersion. The bullet had gone straight through his heart, and he had probably plunged straight off the high bank into the slough.
“Poor devil,” sighed Hashknife. “Anyway, he died quick, Doc. The wind was blowin’ away from us, so we had no chance to hear the sound of the shot. Anyway, I’m much obliged.”
“You’re certainly welcome, sir. We will probably hold an inquest tomorrow, and perhaps the sheriff will ask you to attend as a witness.”
“All right, Doc.”
Hashknife led his horse up to the main street and over to the Pinnacle hitch-rack. Just beyond the hitch-rack was the end of the board sidewalk which led down past the saloon. This end of the sidewalk was about two feet higher than the ground level. It had been intended to continue the walk, but this had never been done. Pedestrians usually ignored the sidewalk at this point and went farther along, where the contour of the ground permitted a lower step.
Hashknife sat down on the end of this sidewalk, bracing his shoulders against the corner of the building, and rolled a smoke. The sheriff was at his office, talking with the depot agent, who was writing a telegram to send to the railroad company at Ransome.
Ben Collins’ and Abe Liston’s horses were at the Pinnacle hitch-rack; so Hashknife surmised that they were retailing the story in the saloon. Two youngsters came from the rear of the building, barefooted, overalls-clad. One of them had a ball made of rags sewed through with heavy thread; rather a lop-sided affair, but a ball, for all that.
Hashknife smiled at them and they grinned back at him.
“Throw me a catch,” he said, holding out his hands.
The boy with the ball flipped it toward Hashknife, but his aim was faulty and the ball struck the ground several feet in front of Hashknife. It failed to bounce, but rolled heavily under the sidewalk.
“Bum throwin’!” shrilled the other youngster.
Hashknife laughed and dropped to his knees, crawling beneath the sidewalk trying to reach the ball.
“Lemme help yuh, mister,” said the boy who owned the ball.
“I can get it,” said Hashknife.
He picked it up and handed it absently back to the boy. In the accumulated litter of old playing-cards, miscellaneous pieces of paper and the general débris, his eyes caught sight of a certain piece of paper.
“Can’tcha git out?” asked the boy who had the ball.
Hashknife backed out. He had forgotten the boys. In his hand was a folded piece of paper, which he unfolded and read carefully. It was Jim Wheeler’s copy of the note on which he had borrowed the money from Ed Merrick.
“Now, how in ⸺ did that get under there?” wondered Hashknife. He studied the situation. Close to this spot was the hitch-rack.
“He got on his horse at that rack,” said Hashknife to himself. “He thought he put the note in his pocket, but didn’t; and the wind blew it under the sidewalk. No wonder he didn’t have the note when they found him.”
He folded the note and put it carefully in his pocket. The two youngsters were watching him closely, possibly wondering what he had found. Hashknife stared at them for a moment, and a grin came to his lips as he dug down in his pocket and drew out two quarters.
“You boys buy yoreselves some candy,” he said, giving them the money.
“Thank yuh, mister!” exploded one of them, and they raced across the street to a store, all out of breath. Hashknife went to his horse, mounted and rode out of town.
The two boys lined up at the fly-specked candy counter and took plenty of time in picking out what they wanted. Angus McLaren and Len Kelsey came into the store, talking earnestly about the latest developments, and stopped near the two boys.
The old man behind the counter peered over his glasses at the boys.
“Yuh want two-bits’ worth apiece?” he asked, rather awed at their enormous purchases. “By golly, yuh must have struck a soap mine!”
“Didn’t strike no mine,” said one of them. “How much are them chaklits, Mr. Becker?”
“Aw, you don’t want no chaklits!” snorted the other. “They don’t give yuh hardly any for a dime. Gimme some mixed.”
“I want some mixed, too, Mr. Becker, but I don’t want all of it mixed.”
One of the boys turned and saw the sheriff and McLaren, who were smiling at them.
“Got two-bits apiece,” grinned the boy. “A tall cowpuncher gave it to us.”
“He’s that new puncher at the HJ,” explained the other.
“Gave yuh each two-bits, eh?” smiled McLaren. “That was generous of him, eh?”
“Y’betcha. Over by the Pinnacle’ Saloon rack. I throwed my ball to him an’ it went under the end of the sidewalk. He got under after it, an’ he found somethin’, I think. Anyway, he was lookin’ at a paper when he got out, an’ he gave us each two-bits.”
“What kind of a piece of paper?” asked McLaren.
“I seen it,” said the other boy, watching the merchant weigh the candy. “It was kinda folded up—had printin’ on it. Say, Mr. Becker, are yuh sure them scales don’t weight under?”
They paid for their candy and went outside, looking into their sacks.
“That must have been Hartley,” said Kelsey. “He didn’t lose any time in followin’ us to town. He was at the HJ, when we brought the body past there. I wonder what he found?”
McLaren shook his head. He hadn’t any idea, nor was he interested in knowing.
Kelsey went back to the court-house, where he found Fred Coburn, the county attorney, at his office. He laid the facts of the case before Coburn, who listened to Kelsey’s story of finding the body of the brakeman.
“All right,” said Coburn briskly. “Make out a new reward notice, Len. Offer the reward, dead or alive. I’ll file a charge of first degree murder against Rich. Personally, I think he killed Jim Wheeler, although that would be hard to make stick. This is a cinch. Better see if the commissioners don’t want to boost that reward. When Ludlow comes, I’m sure the bank will boost it. Rich is going to make one break too many—and we’ll get him.”
“That’s a cinch, Coburn. See yuh later.”
As he came from the attorney’s office he met Ed Merrick, Angus McLaren and Ross Layton, the three commissioners.
“I was just going to look for you fellers,” he said. “Just had a talk with Coburn about the reward. He’s goin’ to file first degree murder against Joe Rich and wants me to make up a new reward notice, offering it for him, dead or alive. How about boostin’ the ante, eh?”
McLaren shook his head quickly.
“I’m not in favor of it. There’s already thirty-five hundred offered, and I’ve no doubt the railroad company will add to that for the death of the brakeman.”
“It would be worth a lot to have him behind the bars,” said Merrick seriously.
“Or under the sod,” added Layton.
“Let’s boost it another thousand,” suggested Merrick. “It won’t hurt to make it worth while.”
McLaren turned to Layton.
“What do ye say, Ross?”
“Oh, it’s all right with me,” said the little man, hooking his thumbs inside the armholes of his fancy vest. “Seems to me it’s like making conversational bets—they’re never won or lost. Personally, I’d like to see more action and less interest in what the man’s scalp is worth.”
“Ye hit it, Ross,” laughed McLaren.
“Well,” said Kelsey savagely, “in this country you’ve just about got to buy a man like Joe Rich.”
“Ye mean to make it worth while for somebody to forget friendship, Kelsey?”
“That’s just what I mean, McLaren!”
“Oh, well, have it yer own way, lad. Friendship is a great thing, and it’s har-rd to overcome with silver. As much of a law-abidin’ citizen as I am, I’d vote to hang the man that would even betray Joe Rich for money.”
“You wouldn’t stretch friendship to cover a man who was wanted for murder, would yuh, Mac?” asked Kelsey.
“Friendship,” said McLaren heavily, “is ver-ry elastic. If it wasn’t there’s few of us that would have any.”
“By ⸺, that’s true!” snorted Layton. “I guess we’ll just leave that reward as it is, Mac.”
“All right, yo’re the doctors,” said Kelsey. “I merely wanted to speed things up a little.”
Merrick smiled thinly.
“Joe Rich still has friends,” he said meaningly.
McLaren’s eyes darkened, but he turned and walked away, with the flowery-vested member from Ransome following in his wake, his black coat-tails flapping, looking very much as Honey Bee had said—“a bouquet of flowers wrapped up in crêpe.”
Merrick and Ben Collins rode past the HJ a few hours later and stopped to tell Hashknife that Kelsey wanted him and the other two boys at the inquest on the following day.
“Just a matter of form,” said Merrick. “You boys found the body, and I think you were the last persons to see him alive; so the coroner will require your testimony.”
“Yeah; all right,” agreed Hashknife. “What time?”
“About two o’clock in the afternoon.”
Merrick’s white teeth flashed in a smile beneath his pointed black mustache as he glanced toward the house, where Laura was standing, looking out toward them.
“Rather a pleasant place to stay, Hartley,” he said meaningly.
Hashknife did not reply to this, but his gray eyes suddenly seemed to change color and became very hard. Merrick shifted his gaze and lifted his reins.
“Well, we’ll be amblin’ on,” he said. “See yuh tomorrow.”
Neither Merrick nor Collins said anything until they were well out of earshot, when Collins glanced back and said:
“Don’t fool with that jigger, Ed. Holee ⸺, didja see his eyes? Didja? My ⸺, it went to forty below right then!”
Merrick nodded grimly.
“I guess that detective wasn’t far off when he said that Hartley wasn’t all smiles.”
Hashknife leaned against the gate-post and watched them fade away in the dust. His eyes were normal now—lazy gray eyes which looked out across the hills, but did not see them; and there was a smile on his wide mouth. Laura was calling him from the veranda and he turned slowly to go back.