Part 2

“No, it ain’t exactly hot. I knowed a man once that was so danged thin that----”

“Your name’s Hartley, ain’t it?” interrupted the sheriff. “Shake hands with Mr. Trainor, of the Circle Cross.”

Hashknife shook hands with Trainor and introduced Sleepy to both men.

“You two fellers just driftin’ through?” queried Trainor casually.

Hashknife grinned and shook his head.

“Feller asked the same thing about a week ago. No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that we’re exactly driftin’, Mr. Trainor.”

“We’re kinda lookin’ for jobs,” declared Sleepy. “We ain’t askin’ for work--for jobs.”

Trainor laughed.

“I’m full-handed right now, or will be, as soon as that jury finds out what they’re goin’ to do. My foreman is on the jury, yuh see.”

“Seems like they was havin’ trouble decidin’ the case, accordin’ to what I can hear,” observed Hashknife. “Old man Cassidy ain’t very pop’lar, is he?”

“Not very,” admitted Trainor. “I reckon they’ll cinch him.”

The sheriff shook his head and shifted his chew.

“Nossir, I don’t think so. ’F they was goin’ to cinch him they’d ’a’ done it hours ago. Cow-juries don’t work that-away.”

“They sure don’t,” grinned Hashknife. “They’re just as liable to bring in a verdict of arson ag’in’ the judge as to settle the guilt or innocence of old man Cassidy.”

“And still they’re twelve men, good and true,” grunted Trainor.

“Good and true don’t mean that they’ve got any brains.”

“Here comes ‘Lonesome’ Hobbs,” said the sheriff, pointing down the street toward a short, fat, bow-legged individual, who was coming toward them as fast as his feet would carry him. As he drew near he removed his hat, exposing an almost totally bald head, which made him look like a very fat and very much overheated baby.

“Juj-jury’s made up their dud-danged minds,” he panted hoarsely. “Do yuh know where the juj-judge is, Fat?”

“He’s over in the Lily of the Valley, I reckon. Better go over and roust him out, Lonesome.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll git ’m.”

Lonesome bow-legged his way across the street, fanning himself with his hat, while Hashknife and Sleepy followed Trainor and the sheriff down to the dance-hall, which was used as a courtroom.

Lonesome’s search for the judge had spread the news that the jury had reached a decision, and the court filled rapidly. Hashknife and Sleepy secured seats near the front of the room.

Seated just beyond them was Lorna Cassidy, and in a few minutes she was joined by a stout, white-haired man, carrying a mass of legal-looking papers.

“That’s Mitchell, the Frisco lawyer,” whispered a man near Hashknife. “I heard that young Lanpher hired him to defend old man Cassidy. I betcha it cost him some money.”

A few minutes later the sheriff came in from the rear of the hall, and with him was Pinto Cassidy, a little, old, wizened character. Cassidy was typically Irish of face, and his steady glance at the audience seemed to carry a fighting challenge to any or all of them.

But his seamed old face softened as he looked at his daughter, and he smiled softly, patting her on the shoulder. They talked together for a moment and then Ben Lanpher came swaggering up the aisle to sit down beside her. He was flushed with drink, arrogant with the feeling that every one was against him, and looked defiantly at every one in the room.

The judge came in and stood beside his desk. He was an old man, white of hair, very dignified. For a moment he looked about the room and rapped sharply on his desk. The buzz of conversation ceased.

“Just to say to you,” said the judge clearly, “that the court will brook no demonstration whatever. You will curb your feelings while within these walls.”

He turned and sat down as the jury filed in. They were a tired-looking crew of men, stolid, some of them seemingly half-angry. They sat down in the jury-box and looked expectantly at the judge, who said--

“Gentlemen, have you reached a decision?”

A big, raw-boned cowman, the foreman of the jury, got to his feet slowly and faced the judge.

“We have not,” he replied evenly, “and we can’t. There’s a ---- fool among us that----” He looked meaningly at a hard-faced, squint-eyed cowboy on the end of the row--“that ain’t got enough brains to grease a needle with. He’s held us up for--well, all the time we’ve been in there, and we ask that you dismiss us.”

The squint-eyed cowboy continued to study the opposite wall, paying no attention to the foreman’s words. The judge cleared his throat raspingly.

“Then you find it impossible to reach a verdict?”

“Yeah, unless we want to foller that half-witted gopher’s ideas and hang old man Cassidy, judge. If it wasn’t murder to kill a feller like him, he’d ’a’ been dead eleven times right now.”

“And that’s no ---- lie,” echoed a disgruntled member.

The judge sighed. He had been many years in cow-land and knew there would be no use to reprimand these men for such language in the court-room. They were all on the ragged edge, and the only thing he could do would be to dismiss them, which he did; thanking them for their efforts.

Ben Lanpher got to his feet and spoke directly to the judge:

“What about Cassidy? Does he get off now?”

The judge shook his head.

“No, I am sorry to say that he will have to stand trial before another jury.”

“There’s a ---- of a lot of justice in that!” roared Ben angrily. “Eleven of ’em wanted to turn him loose, and just because one man----”

“Hang on to yourself, Lanpher!” snapped the sheriff, taking him by the arm. “You’re in a courtroom--not a saloon.”

“That’s right,” gritted the boy. “We might get justice in a saloon, but we can’t get it here.”

The sheriff turned and looked at the judge questioningly, but the judge shook his head sadly and turned back toward the rear door. The jury had got to their feet, and the sheriff crossed quickly to them and moved in close to the squint-eyed cause of their disgust.

“I’ll walk out with yuh,” said the sheriff.

“You better walk with him,” grunted one of the jury meaningly.

“Yes, and you better stay with him,” added Ben Lanpher.

The squint-eyed one glanced at Lanpher and the lines around his mouth twitched sharply, but he did not reply. Hashknife and Sleepy left the courtroom and went back to the street, where men were discussing the trial.

A cowboy, somewhat the worse for liquor, came up to them.

“Kinda looks like they was goin’ to have a hard time convictin’ old Cassidy,” he observed. “I’ll betcha that jury had a ---- of a time. But you mark my word, this ain’t all settled yet.”

“No?” queried Hashknife. “How’s that, pardner?”

“Huh! Lemme tell yuh somethin’. That squint-eyed ‘Smoky’ Cole’ll make ’em pay for what they said about him, y’betcha. He’s plumb salty, he is. I _sabe_ that jasper. Any time yuh think yo’re runnin’ a blazer on that son-of-a-gun, yo’re foolin’ yourself, thasall.”

“Bad, is he?” queried Hashknife.

“I’ll nod when yuh ask me that,” grinned the cowboy.

“You knowed him a long time--before he came here?”

The cowboy sobered a trifle and hitched up his belt.

“Tell yuh what I’ll do, I’ll buy a drink.”

“Who does Smoky Cole work for?” asked Sleepy.

“He’s foreman of the Circle Cross. Works for Trainor. I’m named Edwards, but folks calls me ‘Bility.’”

“Is that yore real name, or is it short for Ability?”

“----, I dunno. Yuh see--”

He grinned and spilled half a sack of tobacco past his cigaret paper.

“Yuh see, I been with the Flyin’ M f’r a long time, and one time some fellers was thinkin’ about buyin’ old man Shappee out. They was arguin’ about things, when I comes up to see the old man, and one of ’em says--

“‘Is this one of yore assets?’

“And old man Shappee says:

“‘----, no! That feller is a liability.’ ”

The cowboy laughed and spilled the rest of his tobacco.

“Do yuh know what it means?” asked Hashknife.

“----, no! And I don’t care. Let’s go. It got me a name.”

They went into the Lily of the Valley, which was the biggest saloon in the town, and found Trainor at the bar, talking with Lonesome Hobbs. The place was fairly well-filled and the games of chance were being well-patronized.

They accepted of Bility’s hospitality and while they were drinking, Ben Lanpher came in. He drank two big drinks of raw liquor before he paid any attention to those at the bar. His eyes were red from liquor and his jaw sagged listlessly.

Hashknife studied him closely and decided that Bennie Lanpher had the makings of a bad-man. He had evidently practised with a six-gun until he had an exalted idea of his own ability, and plenty of liquor had made him careless.

Ben turned and looked at Hashknife, who smiled softly. Bennie was in no mood to have any one smile at him, and his weak jaw immediately assumed a belligerent angle.

“See anythin’ funny about me?” he grunted.

Hashknife ignored the question and turned back facing the bar. But Ben was not to be denied. Something seemed to tell him that this tall cowpuncher had smiled at him--possibly laughed at him.

He shoved away from the bar and stepped in behind Hashknife.

“See anythin’ funny about me?” he asked.

Hashknife turned lazily and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Yeah, I see a lot of funny things about yuh, young feller. If they wasn’t also awful sad, I’d laugh like ----”

“Is--that--so?” Lanpher spaced his words widely and his right hand eased back toward his holster.

“In the first place,” continued Hashknife, “yo’re too young to drink so much liquor. First thing yuh know you’ll quit growin’ and always look like a half-baked kid. You ain’t got brain enough to see that yo’re headin’ plumb into trouble--mebbe a rope. Them is some of the reasons why I ain’t laughin’ at yuh.”

Lanpher laughed mockingly, loudly and then his teeth fairly snapped. The room had gone quiet and every one had heard what Hashknife had said, although he had spoken quietly.

“Take it kinda easy,” advised Hashknife. “I’m a stranger to you and we ain’t got no quarrel.”

“Backin’ up, eh?” snarled Lanpher. “Next time you laugh at a man, you’ll find out who he is first.”

Lanpher’s hand was on the butt of his gun and his body tensed forward, expecting that Hashknife would accept his challenge. But Hashknife’s eyes squinted just past Lanpher’s head and his left eyelid drew down quickly in a deliberate wink.

Lanpher’s head twisted as quick as a flash; thinking that there was danger right behind him, and before he could turn back Hashknife’s left hand had caught him by the right wrist, while Hashknife’s open right hand splatted against the side of his jaw, throwing him off his balance and placing him powerless to do anything, except swear.

And Lanpher did plenty of the latter. Hashknife held him helpless, while the crowd moved in close to enjoy the sight.

“Yuh got a lot of things to learn before yuh can be a honest-to-gosh bad-man,” explained Hashknife. “And one of ’em is to never turn yore head.”

“Lemme go!” wailed Lanpher.

“All right, I’ll let yuh go,” agreed Hashknife, “but you’ve got to agree to one thing.”

“All right, ---- yuh. What is it?”

“As soon as yuh get yore balance, we’ll both start shootin’.”

The crowd behind Lanpher parted with great alacrity.

But Lanpher did not care for the conditions. Hashknife flung him away and Lanpher staggered into a card-table before he regained his balance. Then he went straight out of the door, without looking back.

“That’s tamin’ ’em,” declared Trainor, who had been an interested observer. “It was just what he needed, Hartley. I’ll buy a drink.”

The crowd went back to their games, but the incident was not forgotten. Hashknife was a stranger, which was worthy of notice in Wolf Wells, where few strangers ever came, and he had demonstrated that he was able to take care of himself in a way that appealed to the range folk.

“I wish I had a job for you fellers,” said Trainor, as they leaned on the bar, “but I’m plumb filled up right now.”

“We ain’t exactly dependent on a job right now,” explained Hashknife, “but a feller don’t like to go broke before he lands a job. Who’d be a good rancher to see about a job?”

“I dunno. Yuh might see old man Shappee. He owns the Flyin’ M, but I suppose he’s got a full crew.”

“How much of a crew do you have, Trainor?”

“I’m only hirin’ three men now. Nothin’ much to do this time of the year, except to kinda watch the waterholes. We’re breakin’ a few horses, too. Usually I have five or six men. I had kinda bad luck lately. Mebbe yuh heard about two of my men gettin’ shot.”

“Got shot?” Hashknife shook his head. “We ain’t been here long enough to hear much gossip. Was it for the killin’ of one of them that Cassidy is bein’ tried?”

“Yeah, the last one. Mebbe he killed the first one, I dunno.”

“He don’t look like a killer.” This from Sleepy.

“No, he don’t, but he’s meaner than a snake.”

“Just in what way?” Hashknife was curious, and Trainor glanced quickly at him.

“Oh, just mean. He said he’d shoot the first Circle Cross man he found on the Tomahawk.”

Hashknife grinned.

“He must have a grudge ag’in’ yore outfit, Trainor.”

Trainor grunted an unintelligible reply and turned as some one called his name. It was an undersized cowboy, with a limp cigaret glued to his protruding underlip.

“You seen Whitey Anderson?” he asked.

“Not today,” replied Trainor.

“He was lookin’ for yuh about fifteen minutes ago.”

“All right, Shorty.”

Trainor accepted another drink and left the saloon.

“Who’s Anderson?” asked Hashknife of the bartender.

“Depot agent.”

* * * * *

They drifted outside and found Lonesome Hobbs sitting on a hitch-rack. How he ever got himself up that high was a mystery, but he was up there. He nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy and slid over to give them room.

“I seen yuh have yore fuss with young Lanpher,” he said huskily. “Bub-by gosh, he needed a jolt. How’d yuh ever think up that winkin’ idea?”

“Used my head,” grinned Hashknife.

“That’s it,” nodded Lonesome. “Feller’s got to use his brains--if he’s gug-got any. I can think of the best doggone schemes, but I forget ’em right when I need ’em bad. Feller told me a good scheme once. Said to step hard on a feller’s feet, when yo’re fightin’ him and he’ll fall down. I tried it--once.”

“Didn’t it work?” asked Sleepy.

“Not fer me, it didn’t. I reckon that was only part of the trick; the rest of it was to keep the other feller from knockin’ ---- out of yuh until yuh could fu-find his feet. Anyway, that’s how she ’pears to me.”

They were laughing as Trainor came up to the rack and untied his roan horse.

“Goin’ home?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. Wish I had a job for you two. Hope you get one.”

“Much obliged,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll swindle somebody out of a few month’s wages. _Adios._”

“Seems like a right nice sort of a feller,” observed Hashknife, as Trainor rode away.

“Who, Trainor? Best there is, y’betcha. Danged good cowman, top-notch puncher and reliable as ----”

“Which is some reliability,” agreed Hashknife. “We’d kinda like to work for him.”

“Well, I dunno whether I would or not.” Lonesome pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m kinda superstitious, don’tcha know it? I figgers that things happens three times before they quits. There’s been two of the Circle Cross punchers killed lately. They was leaded considerable, too.

“Figgerin’ the way I do, there’s another one to go. It don’t always work out that-away, of course, bub-but I ain’t the kind of a jasper that goes dead ag’in’ my own hunches.”

“Why do yuh reckon they was killed?” queried Sleepy.

“Why.” Lonesome leaned his elbows on his knees and shook his head. “I ain’t prepared to say.”

“Any idea who killed ’em?”

“Well, they’re tryin’ old Cassidy for the last one.”

“Where is Cassidy’s ranch?” asked Hashknife.

Lonesome jerked his thumb in a northerly direction.

“Out thataway. Yuh take the main road out there, and a little over two miles she forks, but don’t take the right-hand fork, ’cause that goes to the Circle Cross. Keep on goin’ about a quarter-mile and take the left-hand road.

“It’s about seven miles to the Tomahawk, and about five to the Circle Cross. I’d keep plumb away from the Tomahawk, if I was you. They ain’t a danged bit friendly.”

“But Cassidy is where he can’t hurt anybody.”

“No, he can’t, but there’s young Lanpher livin’ there, and Jimmy Droop-drawers.”

Hashknife laughed outright.

“For gosh sake, what a name!”

“He’s a half-breed,” grinned Lonesome, “and that name fits him like a plaster. Jimmy was absent the day they was passin’ around the brains, but he sure can shoot.”

“You got kind of a sweet lot of folks around here,” observed Hashknife. “Looks to me like Wolf Wells had enough gunmen to hold up the reputation of a bigger place.”

“Aw, we ain’t botherin’ with gunmen.” Lonesome spat dryly and shook his head. “We ain’t afraid of nothin’ we can see, y’betcha. It’s the things we can’t see that gits under our hides.”

“Such as what?” asked Hashknife.

“Cows that evaporate, for instance.”

Hashknife and Sleepy looked closely at Lonesome, but his face was deadly serious.

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’ve heard of evaporated milk. Mebbe that’s where it come from, Lonesome.”

“Mum-mebbe,” dubiously. “Anyway, it ain’t a fav’rite subject with me, gents. I reckon I’ll be goin’ back to the office. You ain’t found no jobs yet?”

He almost fell off the hitch-rack, without waiting for an answer, recovered his hat, which rolled under a horse, and bow-legged his way across the street.

Sleepy grinned and looked at Hashknife.

“What do you think of things, Hashknife?”

“Well, it’s too danged early in the game to make any remarks, but I’ll say there’s a lot of folks around here that might start shootin’ any time.

“I don’t think a lot of old man Lanpher’s offspring, but I do like his pardner. Trainor seems like a regular he-man. The sheriff has only one thing to recommend him, and that is the fact he’s so danged thin that nobody could hit him with anythin’ bigger than a .22 rifle.

“Lonesome Hobbs is all right. Old man Cassidy might ’a’ killed that puncher, but I have my doubts. His girl is danged pretty, and William Lanpher might be danged well honored to think that she’d look at his slack-headed son. Outside of that, I’m hungry. Let’s go and eat.”

“All right,” agreed Sleepy. “I kinda feel that we’re goin’ to like Wolf Wells. It kinda reminds me of the old Willer Crick outfit, Hashknife. Everybody suspicious of everybody else. I sure hope they don’t suspicion us.”

“They will, if we don’t get a job, Sleepy.”

As they crossed the street, Ben Lanpher, Cassidy’s squaw and Lorna Cassidy were getting into a light wagon. Lanpher saw them, but did not look up as they passed. The girl gave them a keen glance and the two cowboys lifted their hats. As they went into a restaurant, Hashknife looked back and the girl had turned her head and was watching them.

“I hope she knows us next time she sees us,” said Sleepy, grinning.

“I hope they all do,” replied Hashknife. “I’d hate to be mistaken for some of the boys from the Circle Cross.”

* * * * *

The Tomahawk was a typical squaw-man’s ranch. There was little semblance of order in the locations of the ranch-house, barns or corrals, and the buildings looked as if they might collapse in the next breeze.

The weather-beaten ranch-house, a low, rambling affair, was sway-backed from old age and the weight of many snows, and the barn stood, as a cowboy might express it, kinda antegodlin’ to everythin’. The corral fences were lopsided and badly in need of repair.

A few mongrel chickens strayed around the littered front yard of the ranch-house, clucking wildly after the winged grasshoppers; a family of magpies chattered in the cottonwoods behind the barn, while down in a corral a hungry calf bawled loudly.

It was the day following the dismissal of the jury. In the long living-room Ben Lanpher humped over in a dilapidated rocking-chair, staring moodily at a crumpled envelope. His hair was matted, his face unshaven and his clothes bore evidence that he had slept in them--and not on a bed.

Lorna Cassidy leaned against the side of the adobe fireplace, looking with troubled eyes at Lanpher, while near her the squat figure of Mrs. Cassidy was seated on a low stool. At the far end of the room, sitting on the floor, with his knees drawn up to his chin, was the half-breed cowboy, known by the unlovely title of Jimmy Droop-drawers.

Jimmy was a typical half-breed, in which the Indian blood seemed to predominate strongly. His lower lip was thick and pendulous, his eyes mere slits above his high cheek-bones, and his garb, with the exception of his high-heeled boots, badly run-over at the heels, was entirely aboriginal. It was plainly evident that his beaded-blanket pants had not been made by a tailor, because the seat was entirely too commodious--which accounted for his cognomen.

Ben Lanpher crumpled the letter in his hand and got to his feet.

“Well--” He tried to laugh, but it was only a grimace. “Well, that settles the cathop, I suppose. The old man has cut off my credit--told me that I could have no more of his money.”

He turned his head and looked at Lorna.

“Well, why don’t somebody say something? I’m too ---- dry even to curse him.”

“There is nothing to say,” said Lorna softly.

“Ain’t there?” Ben laughed hoarsely. “It means that we won’t be able to hire a lawyer for the next trial. I’m broke.”

“Why need lawyer?” asked Mrs. Cassidy. “My man never kill cowboy. Only one man think so.”

“That ---- Smoky Cole!” snapped Ben. “I’ll fill him so full of holes that he’ll----”

“And who will pay for the lawyer to keep you from hanging?” asked Lorna quickly.

“You don’t need a lawyer when you kill a man in self-defense.”

“Yo’ look out,” advised Jimmy thickly. “Cole bad man with a gun. Mebbe yo’ need doctor--not lawyer.”

“Too much talk about kill,” said the stolid old squaw, as she slowly filled a pipe with plug tobacco. “No good to talk.”

“Tha’s jus’ right,” nodded Jimmy. “Old Minnie know. Big talk, small medicine.”

“Who were those two men who passed, when we were ready to leave Wolf Wells yesterday?” asked Lorna.

“Them two?” Ben took a half-filled bottle from his hip pocket and reached for a tin cup on the table.

“I dunno who they are. Couple of smart cowpunchers, I guess.”

“Ben, why don’t you go back to your home?”

“Huh?”

Ben took the cup away from his lips and stared at her.

“Why don’t I go home?”

“Yes--back to your people.”

Ben laughed harshly.

“Why should I go back to them?”

“They are your people. You don’t belong here. They would be glad to have you come back.”

“Whatcha talkin’ about, Lorna?”

Lanpher was half-angry, as he got to his feet and walked over to her.

“I told yuh I’d stay here and see that the old man was cleared. Dad wanted me to stay with the Circle Cross, but me and Trainor couldn’t get along. He treated me like I was a kid. Told me not to come over here. Said that you was just a ---- Injun, and that your father would shoot me if I came on the Tomahawk ranch.”

Lorna turned and stared out of the window, her lips shut tight, as if to hold back a flood of bitterness. Then--

“Well, I suppose he was right, Ben.”

“What do we care?” laughed Ben hoarsely. “If I want to marry an Injun, that’s my business, ain’t it?”

Lorna shook her head.

“No, you are just foolish, I think. You go back to your people and forget everybody in the Ghost Hills.”

“Not by a ---- sight! When I go back to California--to Frisco, you are going with me, Lorna.”

The old squaw took her pipe slowly from her lips and looked up at Ben.

“You are very big ---- fool, I think,” she declared.

“Is that so?”

Ben turned to the old squaw.

“Mebbe you’d have somethin’ to say about it?”

She nodded slowly and began puffing on her pipe.

Ben shrugged his shoulders and poured himself another drink. He had imbibed so much liquor during the last two weeks that his system shrieked for more.

“Why don’t you quit drinking?” asked Lorna. “When you came here you did not drink.”

“Lot of things I didn’t do then.”