Part 10

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the judge huskily. “Nice weather we’re having these days.”

“Pretty good,” smiled Hashknife. “The sheriff has told me a lot about things that have happened around here, Judge, and I just wondered if you happened to keep one of those warnings.”

The judge started visibly and looked at Roaring.

“It’s all right, Judge,” assured Roaring.

“I have,” said the judge firmly, “the first one.”

“May I take a look at it?”

“You may; I’ll get it for you, Mr. Hartley.”

The judge went into the house and came out in a few moments with the halfsheet of paper. The warning had been written with a pen, or rather printed with a pen. The paper was of ordinary grade, unglazed.

Hashknife looked it over carefully, examining the letters, even looking through it at the sun. There was a faint watermark--_Fordhill Bond_. Hashknife gave the paper back to the judge.

“What do you make of it?” asked Roaring anxiously.

“Who knows?” smiled Hashknife.

“Are you a handwriting expert?” asked the old judge.

Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.

“Not me, Judge. I know pen and ink from typewriter, but that’s about all.”

“You didn’t come up to the trial, did you?” asked Roaring.

“I’ve been busy. They tell me Peter Conley hasn’t a chance in the world.”

“Gentlemen,” said the judge wearily, “let us not discuss the trial. Anything else, and I am at your service. Won’t you come in?”

Roaring shook his head quickly.

“Got to get back, Judge.”

Hashknife thanked the judge, but declined his invitation.

* * * * *

On the way back to the office, Roaring told Hashknife that the judge had asked him to walk home with him.

“He’s scared to death,” declared Roaring. “Personally, I don’t think they’ll harm him. I don’t think they’d ’a’ hurt Jim Randall, but he didn’t wait to see.”

“Time will tell,” said Hashknife. “The old judge has a right to be nervous.”

They went back to the office, where Wind River Jim was changing the bandage on his sore head. Hashknife sat down at the sheriff’s desk and rolled a smoke, while Roaring assisted Wind River Jim with his bandage. There were several sheets of writing paper on the desk, bearing the letterhead of the sheriff’s office. Hashknife picked one of them up in his hand and looked through it. Across the bottom of the sheet was the watermark--_Fordhill Bond_.

He dropped the sheet of paper back on the desk and lighted his cigaret.

“I’d like to get a line on the jigger that knocked on my temple,” growled Wind River Jim. “It shore aches me.”

“What does Pete think of the trial?” asked Hashknife.

“Sore about it.”

Roaring pinned the end of the bandage and came back to the desk.

“He testified today. Ryker tried to get him mad. I don’t think the jury believed Pete’s story. He admitted he wanted to shoot Mallette. He put up a good argument. Ryker wanted to know why he wanted to kill Mallette, and if he didn’t know it would be murder; and Pete asked him if it was murder to kill a horsethief. He said that Mallette stole his money, and that stealin’ was stealin’; and, by golly, the judge agreed with him, I think! You see, he’s bein’ tried for first-degree murder, and if that knot-headed jury brings in a verdict of guilty, it’s up to the judge to soak him awful hard. He can either hang Pete or give him life.”

“If somebody don’t shoot the judge between now and the time he’s supposed to pass sentence,” said Roaring dryly.

“I don’t think they will,” said Hashknife. “There’s other things to think about.”

Hashknife didn’t tell them what he meant, but went back to the hotel to relieve Horse-Collar Fields. Sleepy was in good spirits, much better than Hashknife expected him to be.

“How’s it comin’, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.

“I’m just about to sing me a little song,” replied Hashknife, and Sleepy knew what that song meant.

Hashknife did not have a particularly melodious voice and seldom did he lift his voice in song, except when a puzzle was working out to his satisfaction.

“And me flat in bed,” wailed Sleepy. “But go easy, pardner. You can see just how easy it is for to go down and out. I never had no warnin’. I felt it slap me down, but I never heard the shot. It hurts worse now than it has any time. The doctor says it’s healin’ up fine. You’ll go easy, won’t you, Hashknife?”

“If you need help, call on Horse-Collar and Lovely. They’re the biggest liars that ever saw the sun come up, but they’re on the square.”

“Dang the luck, I want to ride with you. Can’t you put it off for a week or so? The doctor says I’ll be able to ride in a week or ten days, if I wear a wide belt.”

“You lay still and take it easy. Get well, cowboy. I shore miss you. Ain’t had nobody crabbin’ at me for two days, and it ain’t natural. And I’m not goin’ to get hurt. Can you eat anythin’?”

“Soup!”

“All right. I’ll git a tray of grub at the restaurant, and a bowl of soup. We’ll eat up here and, by golly, I’ll stay here until daylight. I’m as scared as the judge was. I’ll find Horse-Collar Fields and ask him to come agin’ tomorrow morning.”

* * * * *

It was just daylight when Hashknife left the hotel. The street was deserted at that time in the morning, but Hashknife did not lose his vigilance. He found the keeper of the livery-stable, asleep in his little inside office, and told him he was taking his horse out.

“Yeah, all right,” yawned the man. “Need any help?”

“No, I’ll manage,” laughed Hashknife. “What time did Ryker get back last night?”

“Ryker? Oh, it was about midnight.”

“I just wondered.”

Hashknife went to his horse, grinning to himself in the gloom of the stable. He knew nothing about Ryker’s having been out last night, but he had followed another of his hunches when he asked the question.

He took the right-hand road out of Turquoise City, traveling east. Hashknife had never been over this road, so he went carefully. The country was fairly flat for about two miles. Then the road entered the foot-hills. About four miles from town he swung off the road, but kept it in sight and finally came out on a hogback ridge from where he could get a good view of the 7AL ranch.

He was not over two hundred yards from the buildings, but his view of the one-story ranch-house was partly obstructed by a huge stable and several sycamore trees. Behind the stable sprawled a series of corrals and beyond them could be seen the top of the old bunkhouse.

There was smoke coming from the ranch-house. A man came around the corner of the stable and entered the corral at the rear, where there were several horses. A little later he came out, leading a bay horse, which he led around the stable out of Hashknife’s sight.

Hashknife tied his horse in a thicket and came back to the crest of the ridge, where he sat down to wait. It was about thirty minutes later that three men rode away from the ranch-house and came down along the road, passing Hashknife close enough for him to identify Kent Cutter and Ted Ames. The third man was Henry Miller.

They disappeared down the road, and Hashknife went back to his horse. He guessed that Cutter had a cook. There was a fourth man, Jud Hardy. Hashknife knew him for a thin-faced, hard-jawed young man, who had bad eyes--not physically, but morally. Eyes meant quite a lot to Hashknife, when it came to judging a man’s character.

Hashknife mounted his gray horse and rode down to the ranch-house. There was a main gate, but it was wide open, sagging on its hinges. He rode around to the rear, where he found the kitchen door open. There was a pleasant odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee, doubly pleasant to Hashknife, who had had no breakfast.

As he swung out of his saddle, the cook came to the door. He was a grizzled little man, with a big mustache and a slight limp; a typical old round-up cook. In his hand was a frying-pan, still smoking hot. He peered at Hashknife wonderingly.

“Hyah, pardner,” greeted Hashknife, “how about a little breakfast?”

“Hyah,” he grunted, “pretty good-- mebby.”

He looked Hashknife over carefully and glanced at the tall gray horse.

“Ridin’ kinda early, ain’t you, stranger?” he asked.

“No law ag’in’ it, is there?”

“Not that I ever heard about. Excuse me. My name’s McCall. ‘Jinyus’ McCall, to be exact. Used to be Albert, until I cooked a forty-year-old sage-hen for some fellers. One of ’em said I was a jinyus--and it stuck. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Hashknife laughed and scraped his heel along the short boards that had been laid as a walk near the door. He glanced down at the boards, but lifted his head quickly.

“C’mon in,” invited Jinyus. “I’ll make you somethin’ to eat right off the stove.”

“Fine.”

Hashknife stooped over quickly and picked up a little copper shell near the boards. The cook was looking at him curiously.

“Somebody been havin’ target practise, eh?” said Hashknife, exhibiting the twenty-two shell.

“Pop-gun practise!” snorted Jinyus. “Ever since Cutter sent away for that danged gun, they’ve shot at everythin’ on the ranch. Nothin’ is safe. Cutter is the boss here.”

“Oh, I see,” smiled Hashknife. He started to enter the kitchen, but a man’s voice stopped him short.

“What in hell do you want here?”

Hashknife turned slowly. About ten feet away stood Jud Hardy. His hair was uncombed and he had the general appearance of a man who had just got out of bed.

“I didn’t want anythin’,” said Hashknife meekly.

He noticed that Jud’s hand was swinging close to his gun.

“You didn’t; eh?” flared Jud. “Who are you lookin’ for?”

“Not a soul. I was just passin’ and smelled breakfast; the cook said he’d feed me, so I was goin’ to eat.”

“Is that so? Well, the boss ain’t here, and the cook don’t run this ranch. If you came from town, it’s damn funny you didn’t meet him.”

“I didn’t say I came from town,” said Hashknife.

“Didn’t anybody ask you, did they? You turn around and get on that horse.”

Turn around and get on that horse! That was just what Hashknife was not going to do. He started to turn, as if to comply with Hardy’s order, but at the same time he drew his gun so quickly that Hardy was looking down the muzzle of it before he realized that Hashknife had not turned.

The cook stood there, his mouth wide open, the skillet still in his hand. Slowly Jud Hardy’s hands came up to a level with his shoulders.

“Unbuckle your belt and let it drop,” ordered Hashknife.

One look at Hashknife’s eyes, and Hardy complied.

“Back up five steps. Cook, you stand like you are.”

“Believe me!” gasped the cook earnestly.

Hashknife walked forward, plucked Hardy’s gun from the holster and flung it far back toward the corral. Then he backed to his horse, mounted and bolstered his gun.

“Thanks for the breakfast, just the same, Jinyus,” he said.

“Oh, you’re completely welcome.”

Without further conversation he whirled his horse around and galloped off down the road.

* * * * *

Jud Hardy stared at the cook and slowly put down his hands.

“That shore as hell beats me,” declared the cook foolishly. “What was all that gunplay about, Jud?”

Jud spat savagely and went after his gun. It had struck on its muzzle and was half-full of dirt and gravel. Jud came back to the kitchen door, swearing to himself.

“Gee-mighty, that feller was shore forked!” said the cook. “Didja ever see a gun pulled thataway, Jud. Jist _whap_! And you’re it.”

“Yeah,” growled Jud darkly. He was fast with a gun himself.

“What did he want, Jinyus?”

“Breakfast.”

“Tha’sso? Is that all?”

“Well, that’s all he asked for.”

“What did he pick up off the ground? He was showin’ it to you.”

“Oh, that,” the cook grinned. “Nothin’ but one of them little empty twenty-two shells. He asked me if we’d been havin’ target practise, and I said that ever since Cutter had sent for that damn gun, they’d been shootin’ at everythin’.”

Jud stared at Jinyus for several moments.

“Yea-a-a-ah? The hell he did!”

“Shore did. Go wash your face and I’ll have you some eggs.”

“To hell with the eggs! I’m goin’ to town.”

Jud whirled and ran down to the bunkhouse. Jinyus looked after him, shaking his head.

“I dunno what it’s all about,” he told himself aloud, “but it looks t’ me as though somebody was all het up. My, but that jigger shore can yank a six-gun!”

* * * * *

Within fifteen minutes after the opening of court that morning the case had gone to the jury. Ryker had made no plea to the jury, and the judge’s instructions were summed up in very few words. The twelve men had filed out, preceded by Wind River Jim, who acted as bailiff.

The judge did not retire. He slumped forward on his desk, resting his chin on one hand and watching the crowded room. Ryker sat at his table, slouched back in his chair, confident that the jury would bring a verdict for him.

At the opposite table sat Dawn and Peter with Roaring Rigby. Peter was not handcuffed. All the cattle ranches in the country were represented. The Black Horse Saloon was closed, so that every one could attend, and there was a sprinkling of the girls from the redlight row.

English Ed had a front seat, as did Cutter and Frank Moran. The room buzzed with conversation. English Ed leaned past Cutter and spoke to Moran-- “I wonder where Hartley is, Moran?”

“I don’t know.”

“He pulled out almost at daylight. One of my swampers saw him ride out of town.”

Moran smiled thinly.

“I can’t quite figure things out, Ed. I wonder who shot Stevens.”

“That’s a puzzle. Looks funny. Roaring thinks that bullet that hit Wind River Jim was intended for Hartley. In fact it burned Hartley’s neck before it hit Wind River.”

“Somebody is scared of ’em,” declared Moran.

“Why would anybody be scared of ’em?” queried Cutter.

“I don’t know--but they are.”

“Who--Hartley and Stevens?” asked Cutter.

“No, the men who shot ’em.”

Ryker got up and came over to them, a smile on his thin lips.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

“It looks like a poor piece of justice to me,” growled Moran. “That kid needed legal advice.”

“He could have had it, Moran. I’ve played easy with him. There’s not a juror from this end of the county, and I made no plea. What more could I do?”

“He was as good as hung before the trial started,” said Cutter.

“That’s the worst of it,” said English Ed. “I’m sorry for my part in it. Mallette was no good. No, I don’t mean that I uphold murdering a man because he’s no good. But I’m of the opinion that Mallette stole that pot, and if Pete had killed him on the spot, I’d have hired a lawyer to free him.”

Moran looked queerly at English Ed.

“I didn’t expect that from you, Ed.” The gambler flushed.

“I’ve been accused of a lot of things I never did, Moran.”

“I suppose.”

“The judge keeps an eye on me,” said the gambler softly. “He thinks I tried to run him out. I didn’t.”

“He’s getting old,” said Ryker. “We need a younger man on the bench.”

“You, for instance,” suggested Moran.

“Why not? I belong here and I can qualify.”

Ryker laughed, and walked over to the table beside Dawn. He spoke to her and she got quickly to her feet.

“Go and sit down where you belong,” she said coldly.

Ryker laughed angrily, but did not move. The judge struck the top of his desk with a clenched hand.

“Ryker, go and sit down!” he snapped. “That girl and her brother are under the protection of this court.”

“Oh, is that so?” demanded Ryker. “Since when did the court have jurisdiction over a prosecutor during a recess?”

Before the judge had a chance to reply, Pete Conley sprang from his chair, caught Ryker by the collar with his left hand and smashed him in the face with his right fist. He had only time to hit Ryker once before Roaring had grasped him in both arms and dragged him away.

Ryker went to his haunches, but staggered back to his feet, gore running from his nose, his big collar half-torn from his skinny neck. The room was in an uproar. Roaring forced Pete back into his chair and held him down.

Ryker was dazed, blinded. He clawed under his coat trying to draw a big Colt gun before Cutter sprang across the railing and grasped him. He swung Ryker around, talking swiftly. He handed Ryker a handkerchief to mop off the blood; and the prosecutor of Black Horse County leaned against his own table.

The judge hammered wildly on his table, while the cowboys in the audience whooped with joy. This was the first bit of action they had seen. Roaring talked earnestly with Pete, who nodded in agreement. Roaring smiled with evident satisfaction, and there was a ghost of a smile on the face of the old judge.

“By golly!” roared the voice of Lovely Lucas from the back of the room. “That’s the first time I ever saw a half-breed git the best of anythin’ in a courtroom!”

“Turn ’em loose, and I’ll take the breed for forty dollars, even money!” boomed Mark Clayton, of the Big 4.

The old judge rapped for order.

“Cease this disturbance, or I’ll have the sheriff clear the court!”

“You better let well enough alone,” said Hank Pitts. “If Roarin’ Rigby lets loose of Pete, Ryker loses his scalp.”

Hank’s sally brought a laugh that the judge was unable to check. Dawn was leaning forward on the table, crying. Ryker was angry. He tried to arrange his collar, but found that Pete had torn out the button-hole. He finally took it off, exposing about eight inches of thin neck.

Wind River Jim came from the juryroom, closing the door behind him. The judge rapped again for silence.

“They’ve made up their minds, Judge,” said Wind River.

“Bring them in,” said the judge wearily.

The room became silent, as the twelve men filed in and sat down. They looked curiously at Ryker, who was holding the handkerchief to his nose and lips, but none of them looked at Pete.

“Gentlemen,” said the old judge, “have you reached a decision?”

The foreman of the jury, a tall, bearded cattleman from south of Turquoise City, arose and handed Wind River a sheet of paper.

“We have, Judge,” he said, and sat down heavily.

Wind River gave the paper to the judge, who read it slowly.

For a space of possibly ten seconds the judge stared at the back of the room, not a muscle of his face moving. An impatient cowboy scraped a boot-heel on the floor, and it sounded very loud and harsh in that silent room.

“This is your verdict?” asked the judge, without looking at the jury.

“That’s it,” said the foreman.

The old judge shifted his eyes and looked at Peter Conley.

“Peter Conley, stand up,” he said. It was little more than a whisper.

Roaring nudged Pete; he got awkwardly to his feet. Dawn got to her feet, as if to assist Pete, and the judge shifted his gaze to her. He looked back at the verdict.

“Peter Conley,” he said, “the jury has found you guilty of murder in the first degree.”

The judge stopped, but did not look up. Dawn reached over and put her hand on Pete’s arm. He turned his head and looked at her, his face twisted painfully.

* * * * *

There came a slight noise from the rear of the room, and the judge looked up. It was Hashknife Hartley, coming down the aisle, his spurs rasping harshly on the board floor--a jarring note in the most dramatic moment of the trial. But Hashknife did not seem aware of it. There was an empty seat at the end of the first row, and he went all the way down to it.

He looked at Ryker as he sat down, and a smile creased his wide lips. He looked at Peter and Dawn, standing up. The girl looked at him and there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Hashknife turned his head and looked at the silent jury. The room was very quiet.

“They found him guilty, Hartley,” whispered a cowboy behind Hashknife and the whisper could be heard all over the room.

The judge looked sharply at the whisperer.

“Peter Conley,” he said slowly, as if weighing every word, “you have been found guilty. Is there any reason why the sentence of the court should not be imposed at this time?”

Peter did not speak. He did not know what to say.

“Have you nothing to say, Peter Conley?”

“I didn’t kill him, Judge; that’s all I say.” Hashknife got slowly to his feet, facing the judge.

“If you don’t mind, Judge,” he said slowly, “I’d like to speak for Pete Conley.”

“I object!” snapped Ryker hotly.

“You look like you had once before,” said Hashknife. “I’m kinda surprized at all that red on your handkerchief, Ryker; I thought you’d bleed yaller.”

Ryker turned appealingly to the judge, but the judge did not look at him.

“What did you want to say, Hartley?” he asked.

“Why not sentence the guilty man?”

“The guilty man?” It was a whisper-- a hoarse whisper.

“The man who killed Joe Mallette by mistake, Judge. The man who dragged Joe Mallette from your door and took him across that vacant piece of ground, draggin’ his boots full of gravel. Mallette was so drunk that he made a mistake in houses, Judge. You’re safe; you shot because you thought he had come to fulfill that warnin’. Tell the truth!”

Roaring was on his feet, as were half of the men in the room. The judge continued to stare at Hashknife, whose voice rang like a bell in that crowded room.

“What do you mean, Hartley?” cried Roaring.

“Ask the judge; he knows.”

The old judge got slowly to his feet, his face white, his mouth half-open, breathing heavily. His right hand was in the drawer of his desk, clutching the heavy revolver.

“Be quiet!” cried Hashknife. “Let him talk!”

The judge wet his lips with his tongue.

“It’s time to tell,” he said. “Yes, it’s time. Hartley’s right. I hoped the jury--but that’s past. I killed Mallette. The gambling element warned me to get out of town. They swore to kill me. You all know it. I wouldn’t run. I--I waited for them to come after me. Mallette came. He flung open the door of my house and came in. I--I was sitting in my chair beside my table, and I shot once.”

His eyes went slowly around the room and he swallowed painfully.

“I never shot a man before,” he continued. “Wong Kee and I dragged him away. Better to have left him there and sent for the sheriff. But a man don’t know what he would do, until the time comes. Pete Conley is innocent. I killed in what I thought was self-defense.”

He lifted his head and his voice grew stronger.

“I’m glad it’s over now.”

English Ed was on his feet, facing Hashknife and the crowd.

“I don’t blame the judge,” he said. “Mallette was drunk and he got into the wrong place; but I’ll swear that Mallette was not in any plot to run the judge out. It was not the gamblers. I’ll swear that we had nothing to do with it.”

“And I’ll back you, Holmes,” said Hashknife.

He stepped through the railing his back to the jury, where he could face the crowd. A man was coming hurriedly down the aisle. It was Horse-Collar Fields. He stopped just short of the railing and said to Hashknife--

“He’ll be here in a minute, Hashknife.” Hashknife backed up a step and his hands dropped to his sides. The eyes of all in the room were upon him, and they saw him hunch forward a trifle, his right arm lifting just above his waist-line.

“It’s Jud Hardy comin’,” he said evenly. “He’s comin’ from the 7AL ranch, ridin’ the hocks off his horse to tell his outfit that Hashknife Hartley found an empty twenty-two shell beside the kitchen door. He tried to kill me, I reckon. He knew that a twenty-two was used to kill them eight Big 4 steers. He knew there was a million dollar ledge of gold ore on the Hot Creek ranch, and he wanted his share. He knew, and his outfit knew, that as long as Moses Conley lived he’d never sell out--and they wanted it. So they tried to send the Big 4 against Conley and when that didn’t work they tried to kill him. Cutter--don’t!”

Hashknife drew swiftly and fired from his hip. The report of his gun blended with the one that flashed beside him from Horse-Collar’s gun.