Part 1

HASHKNIFE AND THE FANTOM RIDERS

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Blind Trails,” “The Loom of Lies,” etc.

A cold drizzle of fog and rain was sweeping in from the ocean, almost obliterating the guttering arc-lights along the street. Far away sounded the clanking rattle of a cable-car, screeching around the sharp turns. An iron-tired vehicle rattled over the cobble-stones, and from far down the harbor sounded the harsh notes of a fog-horn.

At the front door of an old-fashioned residence, which had been a magnificent edifice in its time, stood two men, hump-shouldered in the dripping rain. It was impossible, in that light, to describe their appearance, except that one was tall and the other very profane.

The tall one, ignoring the call-button, hammered on the door with his knuckles. They listened for a few moments, and then the smaller one cleared his throat harshly.

“Aw, to ---- with this country!”

“Raise yuh a stack of blues,” said the tall one dryly.

“’F I ever get out of here--say, ‘Hashknife,’ are yuh sure this is the place?”

The tall one hammered on the door again, before he said-- “I betcha it is, Sleepy; but the house is so danged big they can’t hear m’ knock.”

As he started to knock again the door opened softly and a butler, of very dignified appearance, squinted closely at them.

“Is this him?” queried the smaller of the two men, but the tall one ignored the question and spoke directly to the butler.

“I been hammerin’ on the door for ten minutes.”

“Pardon me, but you should have rung, sir.”

“Yeah?” The tall man grinned widely. “Well, I might ’a’ whistled, but I’ll be danged if I ever carried a bell. Is Mr. William Lanpher to home?”

“Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Hartley?”

“M’ name’s Hartley, yessir.”

“Mr. Lanpher is expecting you, sir. He will see you in the library.”

“My gosh!” exploded the smaller man, “I hope he don’t ask me to read. You go ahead, Hashknife, and I’ll guard the rear.”

Together they followed the butler into the richly furnished home, where their soggy, high-heeled boots made no sound in the heavy carpets, and into a high-ceiled, homey-looking room, where a log fire crackled in the big fireplace.

“May I take your hats?” asked the butler.

“No, never mind,” grinned Hashknife Hartley. “If we stay long, I reckon we can hang ’em up ourselves. Did yuh say he was lookin’ for us?”

“Mr. Lanpher will be down in a moment,” assured the butler, as he silently withdrew.

The tall man rubbed his big hands together and went to the fireplace, the water still dripping from his wide sombrero. The other man looked around the room, taking in all the details before joining the tall man at the fire, where they stood with their backs to the grateful heat and took stock of the place.

“What do yuh reckon he wants, Hashknife?” asked the smaller man softly.

“I dunno, ‘Sleepy.’ You seen the letter he sent to us at Phoenix. The secretary of the Cattle Association said that he knowed Lanpher and that he was all right. Danged if I’d ’a’ ever come to Frisco if I knowed it was so cold here. Rather face a Dakota blizzard than that danged fog.”

“Lanpher must have money,” observed Sleepy Stevens. “’F I had money I’d live in the sunshine, y’betcha. I’m wet plumb through. Listen to this--”

Sleepy extended a soggy boot and worked his toes.

“Hear her squirsh?”

Hashknife grinned softly, which almost concealed his eyes in a mass of wrinkles. His face was thin and bony--almost sad in repose, and bronzed to the texture of leather from facing the weather of the wide places.

His arms were long and ended in a pair of muscular hands, which seemed to be always in his way. Sleepy Stevens was shorter, heavier built, with a deeply-lined face, a calculating pair of blue eyes, and hair which might be designated as a roan color.

Their garb and actions showed plainly that they were from the cattle country, although they were wearing “store” clothes, except for their boots and hats.

“Yeah, I’ll admit that yore feet are wet,” smiled Hashknife, “but you ain’t got nothin’ on me, cowboy. I’ll bet yuh even money that I’ve got more water in my boots than you have, and settle it right here.”

“Feller, you’ve done made a bet!” snorted Sleepy, and sat down on the floor, tugging at his boot.

Hashknife leaned against the mantel, hooked the heel of one boot over the toe of the other and began to remove his boot, when William Lanpher came into the room.

So engrossed were the two cowboys that they did not see him until he said--

“Perhaps I can find some dry foot-gear for you.”

“Huh!” Hashknife stopped and stared at him. “Howdy. Say, you can referee this bet.”

“Bet?” Lanpher stared at them. “I do not understand.”

William Lanpher was a medium-sized man, of about fifty years of age, rather fleshy, round-faced and well-dressed. The cities are full of William Lanphers.

“Well,” Hashknife grinned softly and looked at his partner, “I reckon we was a little hasty. I bet Sleepy that my feet were wetter than his, but I plumb forgot to state the size of m’ bet.”

“Write yore bet, cowboy!” snorted Sleepy. “I’ve got half of it up to m’ hip right now, but I’ll almost give yuh odds on what’s left in m’ boot.”

Hashknife worked his foot back into his boot, and Sleepy, seeing that the bet was all off, swore softly and scuffed his foot on an expensive Oriental rug, trying to force the boot back on to his foot.

“You are Mr. Hartley,” said William Lanpher, “and I have been expecting you.”

“I betcha,” nodded Hashknife. “But yore front door is so thick that m’ knock never got through it.”

“I wrote to the Cattlemen’s Association,” said Lanpher slowly. “I wanted the best man they could recommend.”

“You got both of ’em, mister,” Sleepy grinned and felt of his toes.

“I only asked for one,” smiled Lanpher.

“The good ones comes in sets of twos,” said Sleepy seriously.

“The letter was sent to us at Phoenix,” said Hashknife. “I know Bill Wheaton, the secretary, real well, and he said he knowed you. We had a ---- of a time findin’ this house.

“Me and Sleepy got on one of them danged street-cars that goes ----ity-blippin’ along, and we hit a curve and Sleepy fell off and----”

“Fell off!” snorted Sleepy. “I got bucked off, yuh mean. The conductor yelped, ‘Look out fer the curve!’ But he yelped after I was reachin’ for the saddle-horn.”

“And I got off to pick up the remains, and the danged car went away without us. Sleepy said he’d be darned if he’d ride another one; so we walked.”

“We waded,” corrected Sleepy.

Lanpher laughed and drew some chairs up to the fire, after which he offered them cigars, but they declined in favor of their own home-rolled cigarets. Lanpher, once he got settled in his chair, lost no time in coming down to his reasons for sending for them.

“I own a half-interest in the Circle Cross cattle outfit in the Ghost Hills Range. Know where it is?”

“I know where it’s located,” nodded Hashknife, “but we ain’t never been there. I’ve heard of the Circle Cross outfit.”

“I wish I never had,” said Lanpher bitterly. “It has already cost me a fortune in money, and,” he hesitated, “has cost me more than mere money could replace.”

“Cow ranches are expensive sometimes,” agreed Sleepy interestedly.

“What seemed to be the real trouble with the Circle Cross?” queried Hashknife, stretching his long legs out to the fire and rolling another cigaret.

Lanpher tossed his cigar into the flames and leaned back in his chair.

“Three years ago,” he began, “Jim Trainor and I bought the Circle Cross. Trainor knew the cattle business--I had the money. It was sort of a case of him putting his experience against my cash.

“We bought stock from all over Wyoming, and I will assure you that the outlay of gold was considerable. I knew nothing about the business, but I knew that Jim did. In fact, I know nothing about it now, except that--well, my experience was not exactly pleasant.

“One year ago, or about that length of time, the Circle Cross cattle began to disappear. Perhaps it was longer ago than that, but no matter. A roundup proved that we had lost a small fortune in cattle.

“Jim started an investigation, but was unable to arrive at any conclusion. But it served to increase his vigilance and he found that stock was disappearing with startling regularity.”

“Some smart rustlers cleanin’ yuh out, eh?” smiled Sleepy. “They will do things like that, Mr. Lanpher.”

“So we discovered,” said Lanpher dryly. “After our own investigations failed, we called upon the Cattlemen’s Association, and they sent an operative. He worked as a cowboy upon the Circle Cross, but was unable to solve the mystery.

“He was taken off the job and another man put on. This man was shot and killed a week after he went into the Ghost Hills country. He was found, riddled with bullets, lying in a corral just outside the town of Wolf Wells.

“There was no clew to his death. Another detective was sent in to take his place.”

Lanpher paused to light a cigar and Hashknife snuggled deeper into his big chair.

“Does it interest you?” asked Lanpher.

“We ain’t made no move to walk out,” grinned Hashknife. “Keep her spinnin’, pardner.”

Lanpher nodded slowly and squinted into the fire.

“I’m no story teller, Hartley. This might be embellished quite a lot, but I haven’t the ability to use words. That detective was there ten days when he was killed--shot.”

“One detective was taken off the job and the next two were killed, eh?” mused Hashknife thoughtfully. “Two out of three is a pretty good average. Was you there, Lanpher?”

“No. This last killing was done a month ago. It seemed a foolish thing to ask the association to send in another man; so I corresponded with Mr. Wheaton. He advised me to get in touch with you.”

“Did the sheriff arrest anybody?” queried Sleepy. “They mostly always does arrest somebody.”

Lanpher threw his cigar into the fire and leaned forward, elbows on knees, squinting thoughtfully, as if trying to frame a reply. Then he nodded slowly, seriously.

“Yes, they arrested old ‘Pinto’ Cassidy.”

Lanpher shut his jaws tightly and got to his feet. He seemed to be laboring under a strain, as he paced half the length of the room before turning back to them. Hashknife and Sleepy waited for him to resume.

“And that is the part of the whole thing that hurts,” he said slowly. “Cassidy is a squawman. His wife is a Sioux squaw. He owns the Tomahawk outfit. ---- knows, he had enough Indian about his place, without using a tomahawk for a brand.”

“You know him very well?” asked Hashknife.

Lanpher ignored the question.

“Cassidy had forbidden any of the Circle Cross outfit to come on to the Tomahawk ranch. This detective was working on the Circle Cross, and he was found dead within quarter of a mile of the Tomahawk ranch-house. He was on Cassidy’s ranch.

“But it is doubtful whether they can convict him, and if they do, it will not bring our cattle back. I do not think that Cassidy is the rustler. It is not a one-man job, Hartley, and requires more brains than any squawman has. In fact, we haven’t the slightest idea where the stock has gone. That will be your job--to find out.”

“And duck bullets,” added Hashknife, grinning. “You ask quite a lot, mister man. But you ain’t told us everythin’. What is yore big interest in Cassidy?”

“Interest!” Lanpher fairly spat the word, as he reached into a pocket and drew out an envelope.

For a moment he hesitated, but drew out the letter and handed it to Hashknife.

“I think that will explain it to you,” he said evenly.

The letter was postmarked at Wolf Wells, and read:

Dad, you might as well save your breath and make the best of things. Regardless of what you say or do, I am going to stick with Cassidy. And what is more, I am going to marry Lorna one of these days. I haven’t seen any of the boys of the Circle Cross for quite a while.

I suppose I am to be classed with Cassidy’s alleged bunch of rustlers, as you intimated in your letter. Well, all right, I don’t mind. This is a wide, wide world and I am twenty-one.

Your affectionate son, BEN.

Hashknife folded up the letter and handed it back to Lanpher.

“Do you understand what it means?” queried Lanpher hoarsely.

“Who’s Lorna?”

“Cassidy’s daughter--a half-breed.”

“Well,” Hashknife frowned for a moment and looked up at Lanpher with a quizzical smile.

“She ain’t never scalped anybody, has she?”

“Scalped?” Lanpher stared at Hashknife. “Why--uh--does this appear as something--er--funny?”

Lanpher’s face was red with indignation.

“Not exactly funny,” agreed Hashknife, serious again. “But I don’t see where you ought to chaw up yore own shirt over it, Lanpher.”

“You don’t? Do you think I want my son to marry an Indian?”

“She’s only half-Indian.”

“All right, half-Indian! I don’t want her!”

“Well! You ain’t gettin’ her, are yuh?” blurted Sleepy. “He said it was a wide, wide world and----”

“Wide world, fiddlesticks! He talks big, because he thinks he’s a man. Bennie wants to pose. A martyred son, and all that kind of rubbish. Marry that ---- Indian? I guess not.”

“Pardner, yo’re doin’ a lot of guessin’,” smiled Hashknife. “This here love thing is a funny old bug. Ain’t nobody ever found a cure for it. And as far as the Injun girl is concerned, she’s half-American.”

“Her father is Irish as Paddy’s pig!”

“Her mother is American,” reminded Hashknife softly.

Lanpher scowled into the fire and nodded slowly.

“That’s true.”

Hashknife yawned and got to his feet.

“Well, Sleepy, I reckon we better be goin’.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sleepy sourly, “we’ll be wadin’ back down the hill.”

“But we haven’t come to any agreement,” protested Lanpher. “You’ll take the job, won’t you?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“I don’t think so. It ain’t noways a healthy place to horn into, and if three cattle detectives have failed, I don’t see where two ordinary punchers stand a chance.”

“Afraid?” Lanpher’s voice was slightly contemptuous.

“Very likely,” agreed Hashknife dryly.

“And Wheaton said you had the nerve of the ----. I’ll show you his letter.”

“But he neglected to say that we also placed quite a value on our own heads,” grinned Hashknife. “Still, it might not be as bad as it looks, Sleepy. Yo’re always honin’ for action, cowboy; suppose we take this job.”

“Then don’t blame me if we both get killed, Hashknife.”

“That’s fine!” applauded Lanpher. “I’ll pay you one thousand dollars apiece to tackle the job. If you show me where our cattle have gone, I’ll double it. I don’t know you, but Wheaton said you were the only one----”

“I’m goin’ to whip Bill Wheaton for lyin’ about me,” interrupted Hashknife. “There’s two liars in Arizona, and Bill Wheaton is both of them.”

Lanpher laughed as he crossed to a table and wrote two checks.

“That will be the best money I ever spent, I think,” he remarked, as he handed them to the two cowboys.

“We’ll use the word ‘most,’” grinned Sleepy, squinting at the check. It was the biggest check he had ever seen.

“Pay to the order of Sleepy Stevens, one thousand dollars. Holy henhawks! I betcha I won’t sleep a wink.”

“Now, don’t go and spend it foolishly,” laughed Lanpher.

“Nossir.” Sleepy folded it and shoved it deep in his pocket. “That stays right in the old poke until I can find a place where they sell rubber-boots.”

They were laughing when the butler came in, apologetic for the intrusion, and spoke a man’s name to Lanpher.

“Tell him I’ll be out in a moment, Parker.”

“Well, we’ll be movin’,” said Hashknife, picking up his hat. “T’morrow we’ll head for the Ghost Hills, Lanpher.”

“Fine. I’ll wire Trainor tonight and tell him to----”

“Nope.” Hashknife stopped him. “You lay off that stuff. Me and you and Sleepy are the only ones that need to know. There’s a danged smooth gang in there, Lanpher. Remember, they spotted them detectives.”

“Well, that’s true, Hartley.”

Lanpher shrugged his shoulders.

“Go ahead and do it in your own way.”

He led the way out of the room, and as they neared the front door, a man stepped over and spoke to Lanpher. He was a well-dressed, thin-featured man, slightly gray at the temples and with a trifle of a limp in his right leg.

“Good evening, Mr. Lanpher,” he said, and nodded to the two cowboys.

“Hello, Carsten,” Lanpher held out his hand cordially, and then introduced Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Mr. Carsten is a cattle-buyer,” he explained.

Hashknife nodded and held out his hand to Lanpher, just as the front door opened and in came two richly dressed women. One of them was a slender, imperious-looking young lady, and the other a middle-aged woman, rather fleshily built.

Carsten spoke cordially to both of them, and Lanpher smilingly said--

“Mrs. and Miss Lanpher, I want you to meet Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens.”

“And we’re sure pleased t’ meetcha,” grinned Hashknife, shaking hands with both of them, although it was obvious that neither of the ladies cared for the hand-shaking.

“We’re just makin’ a short call,” explained Hashknife. “Thought we’d kinda wade out to see Lanpher before leavin’ town.”

No one seemed inclined to pick up the conversation; so Hashknife said--

“We’re sure pleased t’ meetcha, and if yuh ever drift over into our country, drop in and see us.”

The ladies murmured something conventional, but Carsten elevated his eyebrows a trifle, as he said--

“Just where is your country, Hartley?”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh might say it was anywhere in the Western side of the U. S. A.”

“Sort of drifters, eh?”

“Nope.”

Hashknife shook his head.

“We travel under our own power, Carsten. Good night, folks.”

They went out of the front door and into the fog and rain. The fog-horns were sending out their eerie wailings down on the harbor, and the street lights gleamed dully at close quarters or faded to mere halo-like spots at a few yards distant.

The two cowboys halted on the sidewalk and turned their backs to the drifting elements.

“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy, his teeth chattering in spite of himself.

“I dunno what to make of it, Sleepy; but we’ve already made two thousand dollars out of it. Here comes one of them rattlety-bump cars, goin’ downtown. Do yuh think yuh can ride her on the curves?”

“I’ll ride inside and lock m’ heels,” declared Sleepy. “My gosh, ain’t Miss Lanpher a dinger. Whooee! The queen of Sheber never had anythin’ on her--except a snake.”

* * * * *

It was very hot in the town of Wolf Wells, a huddle of unpainted buildings, strung more or less along a crooked, dusty street. Wolf Wells was strictly a cattle town, where no one seemed inflicted with too much morals, and its temperature was very hot in Summer and below zero in Winter, which probably accounted for the weather-beaten appearance of the whole place.

A branch railroad wound its crooked way through the Ghost Hills to Wolf Wells, but the train service seemed in the hands of the train crews, rather than in any semblance of a schedule. Wolf Wells was the county-seat.

Just now the town was fairly well-filled with people. It was Saturday, which accounted for some of the activity, but the majority of the people were interested in the outcome of Pinto Cassidy’s trial for murder.

The jury, a bunch of hard-bitten cattlemen, were still deliberating, after thirty hours of being locked up in a hot jury-room. Near one of the hitch-racks stood Jim Trainor, half-owner of the Circle Cross outfit, talking to “Fat” Fleager, the sheriff.

Trainor was a big man, broad of shoulder and with a face that was as inflexible as a piece of granite. His eyes were gray, like the gray of tempered steel, and his jaw jutted belligerently, as he bit reflectively at his lower lip.

The sheriff was built after the manner of a bed-slat, and from the sadness of his thin face, the bloodhound-like eyes, with their heavy pouches, one might well expect him to be the proprietor of a non-paying undertaking establishment. Both men were dressed in range clothes, and Fat Fleager seemed to be continually in danger of losing his belt, which hung draped around his narrow hips. The waistband of his overalls seemed to cause him much concern also, and the arm-holes of his vest continually crawled out over the points of his narrow shoulders.

They were both looking at a young man, dressed in cowboy garb, who crossed the street past them and went into a saloon. He was a slender young man, unshaven, unhandsome, but there was a devil-may-care slouch to his walk and to the angle of his sombrero. He did not look at Trainor and the sheriff.

“There’s a ---- fool that’s breedin’ a scab for himself,” said Trainor, as the young man passed into the saloon.

“Yeah.” The sheriff nodded wearily. “I s’pose.”

“No brains. Old man’s got lots of money. ---- kid could pick out a society girl for a wife, but he ain’t got no brains.”

“Lanpher got lots of money?” Indifferently.

“Ought to have.”

“Rich kid come to cowland and learned papa’s business, eh?” The sheriff actually smiled at his own humor.

“Lanpher ought to come out here and kick the kid back to Frisco,” growled Trainor.

“Uh-huh,” dubiously. “Mebbe it wouldn’t be safe. The kid got drunk last night in the Lily of the Valley saloon, and he backed ag’in’ the bar, with a gun in his hand, and recited some startlin’ pedigrees. But nobody called him.”

“Felt sorry for him, I suppose.”

“Thasso?”

The sheriff squinted at Trainor.

“That kid took seven dollars away from Lonesome Hobbs day before yesterday, shootin’ with a six-gun. I throwed the tin-cans for ’em m’self. Hobbs ain’t so danged amachoor, y’betcha.”

“Well, let him go ahead.” Trainor shrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the subject.

“Oh, he’ll go too far, that’s a cinch,” said the sheriff. “Kids always does. I wish that danged jury would make up their minds pretty soon. There’s Cassidy’s girl over in front of the hardware store now. I betcha she’s lookin’ for Ben Lanpher.”

Trainor turned and squinted closely at her. She was about average height, with a thin oval face, as brown as her maternal ancestors, but showing little of the aboriginal blood. Her hair was dark and worn in two heavy braids, but her eyes were blue. Her calico dress was well-made, even though a trifle gaudy in color, and she walked with the easy grace of a jungle-bred animal.

“Irish and Injun,” muttered Trainor. “----, what a combination! A blue-eyed Injun. If she wanted a weapon and you showed her a brick-bat and a scalpin’ knife, which would she take?”

“That’s a question,” grinned the sheriff. “But she’s a ---- pretty girl, jist the same, Trainor.”

“Yes, she’s ---- pretty.”

“And she’ll make a good wife for some man.”

“Hm-m-m,” mused Trainor. “I reckon she will.”

Two cowboys were crossing the street and Trainor turned from looking at Lorna Cassidy to give them a sharp glance.

“Who are those fellers, Fleager?” he asked.

“One feller--the tall one--is named Hartley. I talked with him this mornin’ at the feed corral. They rode in last night from the Encinas country.”

“Goin’ to stay here?”

“Lookin’ for jobs, I reckon. The tall feller is a nice spoken sort of a jigger, but he made me feel like he was laughin’ at me all the time. There ain’t nothin’ soft and tender about either of ’em.”

“What did he say that made yuh feel he was laughin’ at yuh?”

“Oh-h-h, well--nothin’ much. He was tellin’ about a feller that he knew who was so durned thin that his clothes wouldn’t stay on him, and so he wore his union-suit on the outside. He said it sure looked awful, but gave him the full use of his two hands.”

The sheriff hitched up his pants and belt and spat reflectively, while a grin flashed across Trainor’s thin lips.

“Anyway,” declared the sheriff, “I ain’t goin’ to try it. Mebbe we better go over and see if there’s any news from the jury.”

As they started across the street, Hashknife and Sleepy came out of the saloon and caught up with them. Hashknife spoke to the sheriff.

“You ain’t puttin’ on this kind of weather for our benefit, are yuh, pardner?”

“This ain’t so hot,” said the sheriff.