Part 9

Poco had used the past tense in speaking of his opinion of Cassidy’s guilt, and Hashknife wondered whether the recent bushwhacking had convinced Poco that both Cassidy and Ben Lanpher were innocent.

“Well, we’re earnin’ that Lanpher money, that’s a cinch,” observed Hashknife. “This kind of a job needs armor more than it does brains.”

* * * * *

He got to his feet as Trainor, Lanpher and a third man rode in through the big gate, and waited for them to come to the barn. It was not until this third man dismounted that Hashknife recognized him as being Carsten, the cattle-buyer, whom he and Sleepy had met at Lanpher’s house in San Francisco.

Both Trainor and Lanpher spoke to Hashknife, but Carsten did not even look at him.

“Hartley, will yuh take care of the horses?” asked Trainor, handing Hashknife his reins.

Hashknife nodded and collected the three sets of reins.

“We’ll go up to the house,” said Trainor, and he and Carsten started away.

Lanpher stooped to take off his spurs and when he stood up, the other two were half-way to the house.

“I got Carsten aside and told him not to recognize you,” explained Lanpher hurriedly. “I didn’t want even Trainor to know that Carsten met you.”

“That’s the stuff,” grinned Hashknife, but added, “Even if everybody else seems to know what we’re tryin’ to do here.”

“It must be only the guilty ones, though,” protested Lanpher quickly. “We had a talk with the sheriff and he plans a big sweep of the whole country very soon. How is Stevens?”

“He’s doin’ fine. That squaw sure beats the doctors.”

Lanpher frowned slightly, but a glad smile chased it away immediately, as he said:

“Hartley, my boy gets his trial day after tomorrow. We were notified of it today. Mitchell, the San Francisco lawyer, will defend him. He gets his trial even ahead of Cassidy’s second one.

“Mitchell is optimistic, but admits that the evidence is greatly against us. In fact--” Lanpher’s eyes were wistful and his voice broke slightly-- “In fact, we haven’t any evidence in our favor, except Ben’s unsupported word. He--he had been rather wild, I am told, and that will all be against him; but my boy did not commit murder, Hartley.”

Hashknife shook his head in agreement and turned to the barn door with the horses.

“No, I don’t reckon he did. Ben was just a plumb ---- fool, thasall. He’s got a hard, hard fight ahead of him, Lanpher, and some of them recent wild oats are goin’ to make all of yuh sick of the lad’s sowin’. But you stick with him.

“That prosecutin’ attorney is sure goin’ to hang a red fringe around the kid, y’betcha. He’ll make you think you raised a locoed bobcat instead of a boy; but don’t mind him. He’s paid to say nasty things about folks.”

Lanpher nodded slowly, as he held out his hand to Hashknife.

“Hartley, I appreciate what you’ve said.”

They shook hands solemnly and Lanpher went to the house, where Mrs. Lanpher and Helen were talking to Carsten and Trainor. Hashknife stabled the horses and went to the bunk-house, where he found Buck half-asleep on a bunk and Poco playing his interminable game of solitaire.

Hashknife told them that Lanpher and Trainor had returned, and mentioned the stranger, who limped slightly with his right leg.

“Kinda thin-faced?” asked Poco indifferently. “Little gray in his hair?”

“Uh-huh.”

Buck cleared his throat huskily.

“Must be Carsten, Poco;” and to Hashknife:

“He’s a cattle-buyer. Works for some Eastern outfit.”

“Sets on a horse like a puncher,” observed Hashknife.

Buck laughed.

“Oh, I reckon, Carsten ain’t no tenderfoot. Feller’s kinda got to _sabe_ horses and cows, if he’s goin’ to mix with cattle-folks and buy their stock.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” admitted Hashknife.

He sauntered outside and saddled his horse. Inaction palled upon him so he rode up past the ranch-house and told Trainor that he was going back to the Tomahawk. Trainor came down from the porch.

“Lanpher just told me that Stevens is gettin’ along fine,” he said. “We’re glad to hear it. We talked with the sheriff today, and in a short time we are going to comb these hills so thoroughly that even a gopher will have to dig deep to keep out of our way.

“You go right ahead over to the Tomahawk and stay as long as yuh want to. Mr. Carsten, a cattle-buyer, will be here for a few days, and I will likely be busy with him. Ben Lanpher’s trial comes up Wednesday; so his father will likely be busy with the lawyer. Poco and Buck can take care of everything.”

He glanced down toward the bunk-house, and added--

“If Buck will try and stay sober.”

“I reckon he’s sick of liquor,” grinned Hashknife.

“By ----, I hope so! He ain’t got no judgment. Well, so-long, and good luck.”

Trainor had been drinking a little--just enough to put him in rare good humor, and Hashknife wondered if he brought some liquor out to Buck.

Hashknife turned at the forks of the road and headed for Wolf Wells. He wanted to get away from the two ranches and mix with people. He felt that there was nothing to be learned from the people at either the Circle Cross or the Tomahawk; so why bother with them?

* * * * *

In the Lily of the Valley saloon, Hashknife found Lonesome Hobbs and Bility Edwards. Lonesome’s fat face was as placid as a mountain pool and his eyes were round and solemn. Bility was also very solemn of demeanor.

They both nodded to Hashknife, who invited them to partake of his hospitality. It was then that Hashknife discovered that Lonesome and Bility were gloriously, shamelessly drunk. Lonesome nearly fell down in merely turning around to the bar.

He looked at Hashknife, wide-eyed and said--

“Gotta roo--roosh-ter?”

“Got a rooster?”

“Yesh,” nodded Bility, “Need one--bad.”

“What for?” Hashknife grinned at their earnestness.

“Fight,” explained Lonesome, trying to make the glass and bottle meet.

The bartender rescued them both, when Lonesome dropped them disgustedly.

“Whitey’s got roosh’er,” said Lonesome. “Pre’y good one, too, y’betcha. Fight’n rooshter. Yesshir, he’s gone af’er it.”

“Who’s Whitey?” asked Hashknife.

“He owns the depot,” said Bility with great deliberation.

Came the sound of unsteady footsteps, and Whitey Anderson bumped his way in through the front door. Anderson was in the same condition as Lonesome and Bility, and in his two hands he carried a bedraggled-looking rooster.

“C’mon with your fight’n animals,” croaked Whitey. “Bring ’m big and bring ’m strong. H’rah, f’r my he-hen!”

“Misser Andershon,” said Lonesome gravely, “shake han’s with my ol’ friend Hartley. Very ol’ friend, ’ndeed.”

“How doo-o-o,” drawled Whitey, and let loose of his rooster to shake hands with Hashknife.

The frightened bird flipped to the top of the bar, volplaned across to the top of a pool-table and scooted out the back door, cackling wildly. Lonesome made a grab at it, but missed and fell flat on his face, while Bility stumbled across him and almost knocked the bar loose from its moorings.

But Whitey paid no attention to any one, except Hashknife.

“Yesshir, I’m glad t’ meet ol’ friend of Loneshome Hobbs. Whatcha shay your----”

He looked around and discovered Lonesome trying to get back to his feet.

“Shay, Loneshome, what shay friend’s name? My gosh, you ain’t got ap’plexy, have yuh? Face’s all red.”

“Who shoved me?” wailed Lonesome, feeling of his nose, which was bleeding slightly. “Who done it, I deman’ t’ know immed’ly.”

“You fellers go outside to do your bumpin’!” advised the barkeep angrily. “This ain’t no ---- corral.”

“Where’s m’ rooshter?” demanded Whitey hotly, looking around. “Who’s got ’m? Loneshome have you got ’m?”

“Nug oomp guff,” declared Lonesome, holding one hand tightly over his nose and mouth.

“He says he ain’t got ’em,” explained Bility solemnly.

“I think he’s a liar, Whitey; let’s shearch him.”

Bility staggered into Lonesome and tried to feel in his pockets, but Lonesome protested strenuously and Hashknife had to pry them apart.

“Got’m in hish pocket,” declared Bility.

“Can’t be dood,” Whitey shook his head violently. “Can’t put rooshter in pocket.”

“Tha’s right!” exclaimed Bility. “Too wild. Let’s shing a shong. What shay?”

“Not in here,” declared the bartender. “You cowpunchers start to sing in here and I’ll----”

“Don’t go no further.” Lonesome shook a warning finger at the bartender. “You’ve threatened us s’fficiently, Misser Weed. We unnerstand yore at’tude perfec’ly; perfec’ly. You are not a frien’ of a workin’ man, so you ain’t. I refuse to shing in yore housh. C’mon.”

They strung out in single-file, with Hashknife bringing up the rear, and went into the street. Whitey leaned against the side of the building and tried to adjust his hat to an even balance.

“Mus’ go back t’ work,” he declared, trying to force himself to a semblance of sobriety. “I’m workin’ man.”

“Ain’t you goin’ t’ shing?” queried Lonesome.

“Yesh, I’ll shing--shometime--but not yet. Gotta work.”

He shoved himself away from the wall and wended a very erratic way down the narrow sidewalk.

“Perfec’ly capable man,” declared Lonesome airily, “but he’s curshed with a thirsht. Ha, ha, ha! Rhymes like a po’m. Curshed with a thirsht.”

“You think yo’re funny, don’tcha?” queried Bility, with drunken sarcasm.

“Yesshir, I am. Betcha I c’n make you laugh.”

“Zasso? Betcha five dollars yuh can’t.”

“Lissen, that’s a bet, now.”

Lonesome shook a finger in Bility’s face.

“Can’t back down, yuh mus’ ’member.”

“Nosshir, I back down from no man. How yuh goin’ do it?”

“Take off yore boots, old shad face. I’m goin’ to tickle yore feet.”

“Tha’s dirty trick,” declared Bility. “That ain’t bein’ funny, you danged fathead--tha’s torture. But I’ll let yuh try it. I’m numb all over, anyway.”

He half-fell to the edge of the sidewalk and began tugging at his boot, which resisted his efforts stubbornly. Lonesome essayed to help him and Hashknife walked away, leaving them in each other’s arms and the boot still intact.

Hashknife crossed the street and bought some tobacco, after which he sauntered down the street to the little depot. He found Whitey Anderson slumped in a chair, his head dripping wet and his shirt saturated.

“Water-cure,” explained Whitey. “Darn near drowned myself, but it sure sobered me up. I get with that blamed gang up there and drink too much. Anyway--” Whitey hooked his toe into the rounds of a chair and jerked it around for Hashknife-- “Anyway, I’m sick as ---- of this town and this job. Nothin’ ever happens, except somebody gets drunk and shoots up things a little. And I mostly always miss that.”

“Wolf Wells seems like a nice town,” observed Hashknife.

“It does? Well, you can have it, as far as I’m concerned. I’m goin’ to have another station or I quit poundin’ brass.”

Hashknife laughed softly over his cigaret.

“I should think you’d get lots of excitement. Train comin’ in every day and all that.”

“My ----!” Whitey stared at Hashknife wonderingly.

“Trains comin’ in--sa-a-ay, the only reason they ever come to Wolf Wells is because there’s a Y here, and it makes the engineer seasick to ride backward. Never any passengers.”

“One come in this mornin’, didn’t he?”

Whitey grew thoughtful for a moment.

“Uh-huh. That’s right, we did have one today. Yessir, I remember that Carsten came in.”

“Come very often?”

“Well, not every day,” grinned Whitey. “He comes every month or so--him and his limp. Yuh know, a horse or a cow stepped on him about six month ago and busted his ankle.”

“Cow or a horse?” grinned Hashknife. “Don’t he know which it was?”

Whitey chuckled softly and helped himself to Hashknife’s cigaret makings.

“I don’t think he knows. Yuh see, it was in the dark. They was loadin’ a train of stock out at the loadin’-corrals and Carsten was helpin’. He sure hollered to beat ----. It kinda crippled him for a while.”

“Does he buy a lot of stock around here?”

“Yeah, I think he does--quite a little. Mostly from the Circle Cross, though.”

“That’s what cuts down the profits on cattle--the freight,” observed Hashknife. “By the time yuh pay for a lot of cars from here to Chicago, yuh ain’t got much left.”

“They don’t pay the freight,” explained Whitey. “The buyer pays ’em so much F. O. B. They’ve got to load ’em, of course. But I guess they get a pretty good price, at that.”

“Are most of the cattle shipped from here?”

“No-o-o. Mostly everythin’ north of here ship from here, and the Flying M and the Circle Cross ship quite a lot, but the last two Circle Cross shipments went from the siding at Sandy, about five or six miles below here.

“That siding was put in for the 66 outfit, so they tell me; but anybody can use it. It’s about as close to the Circle Cross as this is, and if they pick their cattle from the south range, it’s closer.”

“No town there?” queried Hashknife.

“Nope; not even a shed. Just a loading-corral, that’s all.”

A man came in to argue about an overdue express package, so Hashknife sauntered back uptown. He stopped to speak with the sheriff, who was filled with gloom over the fact that his deputy was _hors de combat_.

“Lonesome’s just plain drunk,” he announced. “He’s bad enough when he’s sober. I found him and Edwards out in the street, with their boots off, tickling each other’s feet. That’s a ---- of a thing for grown men to do.”

Hashknife grinned widely and went back to his horse. He had tied the Sharps rifle to the horn of his saddle and now he rode away with it swinging in his hand. Instead of keeping to the road he turned into the hills and rode straight toward the Tomahawk.

* * * * *

It was a broken country and he was forced to travel slowly, but it was much safer than to take chances of being shot at on the road. He passed the spot where he had picked up Poco’s trail that morning, and swung wide around the coulée to come down at the west side of the Tomahawk. He had no wish to take a chance on being shot at again, although he did not expect the bushwhacker to be on the job again that day.

He came out on the brow of the hill and drew rein. There was no one in sight at the ranch-house. The sun was low over the Western hills and the air was filled with the lazy drone of insects. From down in the hills a cow bawled softly.

Suddenly the drowsy gray bronco threw up its head, ears forward, as it glanced almost at right angles, and to the east. Hashknife turned quickly and looked in that direction.

About four hundred yards away, a man was crossing the ridge; a man who stooped low in the sage and appeared to be carrying a rifle. He stopped and appeared to turn in their direction.

Hashknife knew that the man had seen him; so he whirled his horse around and spurred him into deeper cover. As Hashknife drew up he saw the man running in the opposite direction, still running crouched over, and disappeared over the ridge.

Hashknife debated quickly. This man was armed with a rifle, and if it was the bushwhacker, he knew how to use it. He had a decided advantage over Hashknife, because he could stop just beyond the ridge and wait for Hashknife to come to him.

“He must ’a’ been just givin’ it up as a bad job,” decided Hashknife, “and I caught him pullin’ out. C’mon, bronc.”

Hashknife rode back in the direction of the Tomahawk, but as soon as he crossed the top of the ridge, he spurred his horse into a gallop and cut the side of the hill toward where the man had disappeared. This left another ridge between where Hashknife rode and where the man had disappeared, and Hashknife felt sure that the man would not dare to try and cross back to his original position on the slope to the Tomahawk.

Hashknife rode about eight hundred yards along the side of the hill, swung back near the top and dismounted, leaving his horse in a heavy clump of greasewood. Cautiously he went to the top of the ridge and studied every inch of the country.

To the right of him was the spot where the man had crossed the next ridge, and Hashknife could see that the man had gone into a heavily wooded coulée. Minute after minute passed, but still Hashknife’s eyes studied every bit of brush in sight.

But there was nothing, except the heat-haze of late afternoon. Across the coulée in a jumble of rocks a ground-hog whistled shrilly, angrily, as the shadow of a circling hawk passed over the rocks.

Hashknife grinned and reached for his tobacco.

“Everybody’s gunnin’ for somethin’,” he said softly, “but a man is the weakest of all, when it comes to knowin’ when to duck. The ground-hog knows what to dodge, and that hawk ain’t got a chance to collect a feed. I suppose I’d know how to dodge bullets, if my ancestors for several hundred years back had been dodgin’ ’em a few times per day all their lives.”

Suddenly he caught sight of a moving object far down the coulée to his left. It was almost half a mile away, but he was able to see that it was a man on a pinto horse. As Hashknife watched him he swung to the right, climbed up a narrow coulée to the top of the ridge, where he stood, silhouetted against the sky, for several moments. Then he rode over the ridge and out of sight.

“Man on a pinto,” mused Hashknife. “Too far away for a shot with this old gun, and, anyway, I don’t know that he’s the man I’m after.”

He watched for about five minutes longer and went back to his horse, where he mounted and rode to the Tomahawk ranch-house.

They were all glad to see him, especially Sleepy, who was propped up in a chair, trying to teach Lorna to roll cigarets for him. Jimmy, the half-breed, was there but, like his aboriginal ancestors, did not ask questions.

Hashknife explained to Sleepy what had happened to him after leaving there that morning; told him of following Poco Saunders, and of seeing the man on the pinto.

“Jimmy,” Hashknife turned to the half-breed, “who rides a pinto horse?”

Jimmy squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“Nobody, I guess. I have pinto long time ago, but him stole, I think.”

“Long time ago? How long is a long time, Jimmy?”

“T’ree, four month, I think.”

Lorna had been an interested listener, but now she exclaimed:

“Why, the man that shot Sleepy was riding a pinto! I did not think to tell you before.”

“Pinto, pinto, who owns the pinto,” laughed Hashknife. “There’s no pinto on the Circle Cross. Buck Avery rides a Roman-nosed buckskin and a jug-headed roan. Poco has a sorrel and a bay; Trainor keeps four others at the stable, but there ain’t a pinto in the outfit.”

“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “mother says I’ll be ridin’ in a day or so; and we’ll find out who forks a painted bronc. You need me and my brains, cowboy.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife grinned widely. “I sure need yuh, Sleepy.”

Lorna and her mother went into the kitchen and Sleepy motioned Hashknife to come closer.

“I’ll tell yuh why Cassidy drew the deadline with the Circle Cross. It was because Trainor came to see Lorna and made love to her. He got drunk and bragged about it in Wolf Wells, it seems, and when Cassidy asked him if he was goin’ to marry her--well, I reckon Trainor wasn’t.

“Lorna didn’t tell me, but her mother did. Smoky Cole came to see her a few times, too; but Mrs. Cassidy says that Smoky was nice boy.”

Hashknife nodded slowly and looked straight at Sleepy.

“You ain’t stuck on her, are yuh, Sleepy?”

Sleepy rubbed his hand thoughtfully on his knee, avoiding Hashknife’s eyes for a moment, but looked up and said:

“No. She’s goin’ to marry Ben Lanpher, if he gets loose. They’ve been mighty good to me here, Hashknife. The old lady is a dinger, y’betcha. My own mother couldn’t ’a’ done more for me than she has. If old Cassidy don’t get acquitted, I’m goin’ down and blow a corner off that jail. Gotta do somethin’ to show my appreciation.”

Hashknife stayed to supper and spent the evening with them. Bright moonlight flooded the land when he started back for the Circle Cross, so he headed into the hills in preference to taking a chance along the lighted road. There were too many narrow places where a man might lie in wait with a sawed-off shotgun.

He rode slowly along the moonlit ridges, through the misty-gray-blue hills; silent, except for the occasional yipping bark of a coyote or the sleepy bawl of a cow. From far away came the faint whistle of a locomotive as the train drew near Wolf Wells.

Hashknife stopped his horse and rolled a cigaret. He could think clearer with a cigaret between his lips. He had the glimmering of an idea--a solution to the whole problem--but there were many tangles to straighten out, many loose ends to pick up yet.

“Gawd A’mighty,” he said half-aloud. “I ain’t askin’ nothin’ for me and Sleepy. That other two thousand that Lanpher offers us ain’t worth prayin’ for, but if you can see yore way clear to keep them dirty pups from fillin’ us with lead until I can clean up this layout, I sure wish you’d do it. Amen. C’mon, bronc.”

Which was the nearest thing to a prayer that Hashknife Hartley had ever offered--and it was not for himself or his partner--but for those who would profit more than gold.

* * * * *

The trial of Ben Lanpher for the murder of Smoky Cole was the first case on the docket and caused much speculation in the Ghost Hills Range. They came from far and wide to sit in a hot, stuffy court-room and listen to the bickerings of the attorneys. Mitchell, the San Francisco lawyer, had worked swiftly in building up a defense, which he knew to be weak and insufficient. His only argument would be that Ben was too drunk to have done the deed.

There was no one who could say what kind of a bullet had killed Smoky Cole. Lanpher had told Mitchell about the doings of the bushwhacking rustlers, but Mitchell knew that there was little hopes of throwing the guilt upon a party or parties unknown; especially after Ben’s hat and gun had been found near the murdered man.

The fact that Ben and Smoky had tried to shoot each other in town, and that Ben had left town ahead of Smoky, tended to weaken the defense badly.

Eph Baker, the prosecuting attorney, chewed tobacco and grinned benevolently upon everybody. Eph was fat, and the hot weather bothered him considerably, but he realized that little effort would be necessary to win this case. He had prepared a scathing denunciation of young men who come to cowland and mix their whisky with six-guns.

It had cost him much in perspiration to prepare this tirade, but the heart within him rejoiced that he would be directing his verbal broadsides at “city-folk” and not at the people of the range country. He felt sorry for the Lanpher family, and especially for the young lady, but Eph was cognizant of his place in the sun and was going to make a name for himself, in spite of his feelings.

Ben was a greatly changed young man since his few days in jail. He realized what his escapades had done for him and there was little doubt of his sincere repentance. His mother, sister and father sat at the table with Mitchell, while just away from them sat Ben and the sheriff.

Sleepy was able to sit in a saddle again and rode in with the family from the Tomahawk. He was a little pale and had not regained his full strength, but his six-gun swung at his hip and he prayed for an open shot at the man who had shot him from ambush.

The sheriff had questioned Hashknife regarding Lorna’s identification of the man, but Hashknife had evaded the question. Several other men, who had been at that meeting, tried to find out who she had meant, but Hashknife told nobody, except Trainor. The night after he had left the Tomahawk he had met Trainor at the front of the ranch-house and had told him what Lorna had said.

Trainor was very grave over the information, and tried to remember some one who might look or ride like Buck Avery, but was unable to do so. There seemed no doubt in his mind that Lorna was mistaken in the man, because of Buck’s condition.