Part 5
It would mean that the lean-faced cowboy would not rest until it was all straightened out, regardless of the cost. Since the day when George Hartley had ridden in at the ranch that gave him his nickname, he and Sleepy Dave Stevens had been inseparable. They had cast their lots together and had become wanderers of the open places, going nowhere in particular, but always heading for the next hill, just to see what might be on the other side.
Hashknife had been born with an analytical mind. Having had little schooling and having been born in the cattle country, he naturally became a cowpuncher, a rider of bad bronchos--a top hand with cattle. But there was always the urge to follow the trail of trouble, and when he found Sleepy Stevens, blue-eyed, grin-wrinkled, always looking beyond the distant ranges, they went away together, up and down the land, untangling the mysteries of range trouble, seeking no remuneration, asking no thanks.
In many places they were marked men, but this did not stop them from coming back. Life had made them confirmed fatalists, knowing that nothing could happen to them until their time came.
The West did not list them as gunmen; but strangely enough they had gone through many gun battles unscathed, when men faster with guns had gone down. Theirs was the psychology of being in the right.
“Run when you’re wrong; shoot when you’re right,” said Hashknife. “That’s why some of these fast gunmen get killed off’--they shoot when they’re wrong.”
Sleepy Stevens did not analyze anything. He followed Hashknife dumbly, filled with arguments against getting into trouble, deriding Hashknife’s ability, vocally fearful of getting killed; and yet he inwardly delighted over it all, anxiously waiting for somebody to start shooting.
The following morning after breakfast, Moran, Regan, Roaring and Hashknife rode away from the Big 4 ranch. Hashknife led Sleepy’s horse, as he meant to meet the train at Turquoise City that afternoon.
Regan led the way down to the cut fence at the Conley ranch, and they rode through to Hot Creek. As they came out along the lava beds, high above the creek bottom, they could easily count the eight head of dead steers. Moran swore bitterly against Moses Conley and promised him plenty of trouble for this work.
They circled the lava beds and came down into the bottom. Moran had explained to Hashknife about this warm spring, and Hashknife could see the value of it as a winter shelter and watering place.
“We all used it,” said Slim Regan. “Why, you could run a thousand head of cattle in here ahead of a blizzard, and they’d stand it fine and dandy. This country is cold in the winter. The other streams freeze to the bottom.”
“Why don’tcha make some kind of a deal with Conley?” asked Hashknife.
“Can’t be done; he won’t sell out. Moran offered him more than it’s worth, but he won’t sell. The 7AL has tried to buy it, but didn’t have any luck. The old fool won’t listen to money.”
“Hey!” blurted Roaring. “Look at that animal!”
They had ridden up close to the nearest dead steer. On its shoulder was a spot about a foot square, where the hide had been stripped off.
“The dirty old pup!” wailed Moran. “He’s skinned out the brands. But that won’t help him. Everybody knows we brand on the left shoulder.”
“So does the Stumblin’ K,” said Roaring thoughtfully.
“Huh!” Moran stared at Roaring. “Is that so! I suppose that squirt of a kid will claim the carcasses, eh? Swear he owned ’em, eh? But you and Clayton saw ’em, Slim. You can swear they had Big 4’s, can’tcha?”
“Shore,” nodded Slim thoughtfully.
He remembered that he and Clayton had told Jimmy about it last night. Now he wished that he had kept his mouth shut.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” asked Moran.
Slim jerked slightly and adjusted his Stetson carefully.
“I was just thinkin’ how much gall some folks have.”
“Oh, Conley’s got plenty of it, Slim. He always did have. Well, what about it, Roarin’? Goin’ to arrest Conley?”
“When you swear out a warrant, Moran. Pers’nally, I don’t see anythin’ to arrest him for. Eight dead steers without any brands don’t mean nothin’ to me. Lotsa folks around here has white-faced cattle. If you swear out a warrant for Mose Conley, I can’t help servin’ it.”
“I can prove ownership of these dead steers.”
“You’ll have a hell of a time!”
“Maybe. Oh, let’s go to town. This makes me sore; but what I’d like to know is this: Why didn’t Conley cut the brands off before you and Clayton saw the animals?”
“That wouldn’t have been any revenge,” said Slim.
“No, that’s true. I’ve a notion to go over and have it out with Mose Conley right now.”
“Hop to it,” grinned Slim. “You can shore have my share of it. My gun and Mark’s gun are still there, so you might ask him for ’em.”
Moran spat out the stump of his cigar and picked up his reins.
“I reckon it can wait,” he said. “I’ll see him later.”
They rode back through the cut fence, instead of going down through Conley’s gate. They rode to Turquoise City.
* * * * *
Dawn and her father had been out to Hot Creek earlier in the morning, and they were just as surprized as the Big 4 men had been to find the brands skinned off.
“Mighty queer,” said Conley heavily. “I don’t understand it, Dawn.”
“No one would,” replied Dawn.
“The Big 4 is tryin’ hard to get me,” declared Conley.
He seemed years older today, and he mounted his horse with difficulty.
“Why don’t you sell out, Dad?” asked Dawn.
It was the first time she had ever suggested such a thing, and he looked queerly at her.
“I won’t be hounded out,” he said firmly. “I’ll never sell to the Big 4, Dawn.”
“Sell to some one else. It will give us enough to take us away from here, and we can start in a new country.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I feel old today; didn’t sleep much last night. I kinda expected the sheriff out to get me, I guess. Don’t know why he don’t come. The Big 4 killed them steers, Dawn. They cut the fence and drove ’em down here. They want to railroad me out of the country.
“But I’m not goin’,” he said, after a pause. “I never done anythin’ wrong, and they can’t take me. I’ll shoot the first man that comes on my ranch.”
“The first man might be a friend,” said Dawn softly.
“I ain’t got a friend. They’re all ag’in’ me, Dawn. They got Pete into a poker game and stole his money. They knocked him down after they robbed him, and now they’ll try to hang him for killin’ a thief. Well, they can come and get the old man any time they feel like it--but they’ll know they’ve been to war.”
They rode back to the house, where Dawn hitched a horse to the rickety old buggy and drove to town after groceries. She wanted to have a talk with Roaring Rigby about the dead steers and about her father. She knew her father meant what he had said about taking a shot at anybody who came after him.
Roaring was not at the office, but Wind River Jim was there. With him was Jeff Ryker, the attorney. They both knew about the dead steers and were waiting for Roaring to return and tell them the rest of the story.
Wind River told her that Roaring had ridden out to the Big 4 with Regan and Clayton the night before, and hadn’t returned yet. Ryker was very pleasant. In fact he was so pleasant that Wind River snorted aloud.
Ryker did not know that Dawn’s mother had told her; but he hoped his suit was being looked upon with favor. Neither of them mentioned the dead steers, but Wind River told her that Jimmy Moran’s father was at the Big 4.
“He probably came back to try and buy your father out,” said Ryker.
Dawn shook her head.
“He knows it’s no use,” she said. “Dad won’t sell out to the Big 4. They’ve tried enough times.”
“So I understand.” Ryker rubbed his hands together, causing his celluloid cuffs to click. “Still,” he said thoughtfully, “I think he’d be wise to sell the place. Cutter would pay a good price. In fact, I think he made your father an offer, Miss Dawn.”
“_I_ don’t know,” said Dawn. “Dad is queer about that old place. I wish he would sell. It isn’t pleasant living the way we do. I know I’d be willing to sell out.”
“How does your mother feel about it?”
“Mother doesn’t seem to care; it isn’t her nature.”
They both knew what Dawn meant.
“With Peter in trouble, I don’t think Dad would consider any offers,” said Dawn.
“Yes, I understand that,” said Ryker.
Dawn turned back to the door of the office.
“I believe I’ll go out and have a talk with your father,” decided Ryker.
Dawn shook her head quickly.
“I don’t believe you better, Mr. Ryker. He said he’d kill the first man that comes on the ranch.”
“But that is ridiculous, Miss Dawn!”
“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t go out there to see how much truth there is in it, if I were you, Mr. Ryker.”
Dawn left the office and went back up the street, while Wind River Jim leaned back in the old swivel chair and laughed at Ryker.
“That’s a reg’lar family of home folks,” laughed the deputy. “Girl sticks up two mad punchers with a shotgun and takes away their guns. Then the old gent declares war ag’in’ the world. I only hope he don’t decide to attack. As far as I’m concerned, he can jist set there on his porch until the stock rots off his Winchester. I’ve seen that old pelican throw lead from his old forty-five-seventy, and I don’t want him to notch no sight on me.”
“But that’s a ridiculous situation,” declared Ryker, waving his arms helplessly. “The man must be crazy.”
“Put yourself in his place, Ryker. His son faces hangin’; they find a lot of Big 4 steers killed on his land, and they’re goin’ to try and git him for it. What would you do, eh? Wave your arms and talk about it bein’ ridiculous? Huh! You make me sick!”
Ryker walked to the doorway and leaned a shoulder against the door-frame. Roaring Rigby, Franklyn Moran, Slim Regan and Hashknife Hartley were riding into the upper end of the street. Hartley and Regan rode in at the Black Horse Saloon hitch-rack, where they tied the three horses, while Moran and Regan came on down to the office. Moran shook hands with Ryker and Wind River Jim, and Ryker wanted to know all about the dead steers.
Moran told him exactly what they had found, and Ryker whistled softly.
“But you’re going to have Conley arrested, are you not?” he asked.
“Haven’t made up my mind.”
“You should; he’s out at his ranch, and he says he’ll kill the first man that comes out there.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll wait until somebody else takes the first chance.”
* * * * *
Ryker grinned sourly as he walked away, going to the Black Horse Saloon. He found Hashknife and Regan at the bar. Regan invited him to have a drink; and he introduced Hashknife.
“Ryker is the prosecuting attorney,” explained Regan.
“He’s the jigger who proves they’re guilty, whether they are or not, eh?” laughed Hashknife.
“Something like that,” smiled Ryker, accepting the drink.
“You’re not part of the law that’s been ordered out of the county, are you?” asked Hashknife.
“Not yet. No, they’re not on my trail, it seems.”
Regan nudged Hashknife sharply. English Ed was coming up to them, and Regan didn’t want any arguments started. The gambler looked sharply at Hashknife, when Regan introduced him.
“Holmes owns this place,” explained Regan.
“Uh-huh. Quite a place you got, Holmes,” observed Hashknife. “Lot nicer than bootleggin’ hooch to the Flatheads, eh?”
Holmes started quickly, and for once he forgot to use his poker-face. But he recovered quickly and stared at Hashknife.
“I didn’t quite get that,” he said.
Hashknife looked at him keenly, his level gray eyes boring into the gambler’s face.
“Mebby I’m mistaken,” he said slowly. “There was a Holmes that bootlegged hooch to the Flatheads up in Montana a few years ago. He was a remittance man from Canada. Yeah, his name was Ed Holmes. I guess you’re not the man.”
“I know I’m not,” denied Holmes. “I never was up in Montana. I’m not sure I got your name.”
“Hartley. My friends call me Hashknife.”
“I see, you’re a stranger here. Going to stay long?”
“I dunno. I’ll buy a drink.”
“No; this is my treat,” said the gambler, motioning the bartender. They drank a “good luck” to the house, and Holmes excused himself.
“Glad to see you any time,” he told Hashknife. “Make this your headquarters.”
“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife; he watched the gambler cross the big room to a poker table.
“Jist how near right was you about that Flathead deal?” queried Regan.
Hashknife laughed, but did not reply.
“You are probably mistaken,” said Ryker softly.
“Is that a legal opinion, or man to man?” asked Hashknife.
“Merely my opinion,” said Ryker seriously. “Now, I’ll buy.”
Hashknife shook his head quickly.
“Nope, I’ve had enough, pardner. Knowin’ when to quit is a failin’ I’ve always had.”
They left the bar and went to the sidewalk, where they met Kent Cutter and two of his men. Regan introduced Hashknife to them, and Cutter offered to buy a drink, but Hashknife and Slim declined. Not so Ryker. He went in with them, while Hashknife and Regan walked to the depot to see whether the train would be in on time.
The few drinks had made Ryker expansive. He wanted to tell Cutter what Hartley had said to English Ed, but English Ed joined them before Ryker had a chance to do much talking.
“Where did that fellow come from?” demanded English Ed.
“He brought Frank Moran from Sibley Junction,” explained Ryker. “His partner rented his horse to Moran, and the partner will be in on the train today.”
“Looks kinda forked,” observed Cutter indifferently.
“He is,” said English Ed. “That’s Hashknife Hartley. He’s a cattle detective.”
“Oh-ho-o-o!” grunted Cutter. “Association man, eh?”
Ryker grinned half-drunkenly.
“He knew you, didn’t he, Holmes?”
“That’s my business. You keep out of it.”
“That’s all right,” grinned Ryker.
“What’s he doin’ here?” wondered Cutter.
“Maybe Franklyn Moran knows.”
“There’s been no rustlin’ around here, Ed.”
“What about those dead steers at Conley’s?”
“Pshaw! They were killed yesterday. I think he just happened to come here. Mebby he--” Cutter hesitated-- “Mebby he came here to investigate the killin’ of Joe Mallette.”
English Ed squinted at himself in the back-bar mirror.
“I don’t know who would hire him to investigate that.”
“Conley might,” suggested Ryker.
“That’s true enough,” agreed Cutter. “If Hartley is an Association detective, like you say, Ed, he’d have a slick way of comin’ into a place, wouldn’t he? Detectives don’t usually have a brass band and a lot of banners.”
“I suppose that’s true,” nodded the gambler.
Ryker laughed outright and reached for the bottle on the bar.
“I wonder if Hartley has seen Conley. The old man is out at his house with a Winchester in his hands, and he swears he’ll kill the first man that comes on the place.”
“How do you know?” demanded Cutter.
“His own daughter told me awhile ago.”
“Yeah, and he’ll do it, too,” said Cutter. “I’m shore glad I don’t owe him any visit.”
Mack Ort, one of English Ed’s gamblers, came up to the bar, nodding to the three men. Ort was a slim, dark-faced man of about thirty-five, reputed to be a gunman. Little was known of him in Turquoise City, except that he had cold, hard nerve, and very little sense of humor.
English Ed’s other gunman was Keno Smiley, a tall, tow-headed person, with a huge nose and a long, lean jaw. It was rumored that Smiley had left the mining camps of the Cœur d’Alenes just two jumps ahead of a United States marshal; but this rumor had never been confirmed.
Smiley had been picking out a tune on the piano with his long, lean fingers, but now he sauntered up to the bar beside Ort.
“Who was that puncher with Regan, Mack?” he asked.
“I dunno,” replied Ort. He turned to Cutter.
“Know who he is, Cutter?”
“That tall feller? Yea-a-ah. They tell me he’s a detective from Northern Idaho, Mack.”
Cutter seemed serious, but Smiley saw the grin on Ryker’s lips. He flushed slightly.
“You tryin’ to be funny, Cutter?” he asked.
“Not a bit, Keno. Go ask English Ed.”
“Does English know him?” asked Ort.
“To his everlasting sorrow,” grinned Ryker.
“What does he want here?” demanded Smiley.
“Give him enough time and he’ll probably show you,” said Ryker.
“Well, he’s got nothin’ on me,” declared Smiley.
“Nor me,” echoed Ort. “Let’s all have a drink.”
* * * * *
The train was late that afternoon. It had taken a long time to clear away the wreck. Hashknife was alone at the depot, when Sleepy climbed off the train, a wide grin on his face. He had Moran’s two valises, but Moran had told Hashknife to leave them at the depot, because he and Regan were going back to the Big 4.
“I was sure glad to see this train pull in at Sibley,” grinned Sleepy. “That bartender drove me wild. When he ran out of talk about himself, he read out loud from his book. Where’s the horses?”
“Tied to a hitch-rack up the street, Sleepy.”
“Uh-huh,” Sleepy’s blue eyes studied Hashknife seriously.
“How soon do we pull out, Hashknife?”
“Most any time, I reckon.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed in surprise.
Sleepy was rather taken aback. Hashknife lighted a cigaret and sat down on the rear platform of the depot.
“Remember Ed Holmes, the remittance man, who bootlegged hooch to the Flatheads, Sleepy?” he asked.
“Holmes? Lemme see--Holmes. Remittance man, oh yeah.”
“He’s top hand in a big honkatonk here. Owns the place. I sprung the bootleg thing on him and he flinched; but he shook out of the loop pretty quick and denied everythin’. I admitted I might be mistaken; but he knows I ain’t, and he knows I know it. Got a few gunmen workin’ for him. Somebody has scared the sheriff out of the country, and tried to scare the county judge, but he don’t scare. Tin-horn gambler got shot by a half-breed a few days ago, but they got the breed. Old Man Moran owns the Big 4, and his wayward son is in love with this half-breed’s sister. Yesterday they found eight Big 4 steers dead on this squaw-man’s place, but before they got the sheriff out to see the evidence, somebody skinned out the brands. And that’s about all there is, Sleepy.”
Sleepy sighed deeply and rolled a cigaret.
“I’m shore glad,” he said slowly. “I tell you I was scared there might be trouble over here, and that you’d get your long nose into it. Didja get the twenty-five from Moran?”
“Y’betcha.”
Sleepy smoked slowly, eyeing the main street of Turquoise City.
“Didja meet young Moran?” he asked.
“Nope. Regan, the foreman of the Big 4, told me a lot about him. Wild young Irishman, I reckon. Busted with his father, they say. Took the money his mother left him and bought a ranch here. Too much liquor and cards have put him on the rocks, but he’s still a wild go-devil. Sent word to his father to mind his own damn business.
“The sheriff is a character, Sleepy. You’ll like him. He ain’t got a brain in his head, and he’s got a deputy that don’t know there ever was a Civil War--and don’t care. This sheriff was a deputy just long enough to learn how to pin his badge on right side up. There’s nobody to show ’em what to do. I met the prosecuting attorney. Queer looking jigger, named Ryker. Wears celluloid cuffs and a collar two sizes too big. Ex-assayer. Still owns the assay office here.
“They tell me that the judge is an old-timer here. Lives alone, with a crippled Chinese cook. Square as a dollar, drinks like a fish and thinks the town needs cleanin’.”
“What about this half-breed girl?” asked Sleepy.
Hashknife smiled softly over his cigaret.
“I haven’t seen her, Sleepy. Regan says she’s as pretty as a picture. She stuck Regan and one of the cowboys up with a shotgun and took away their guns last night.”
“Um-m-m-m-ha-a-ah!” grunted Sleepy. “Beauty is as beauty does. I’ll say she ain’t no frail lily. And it’s her brother they’ve got in jail, eh?”
“And the sheriff is also in love with her,” smiled Hashknife. “I dunno how many others. And her old man sits on the porch with a great big .45-70 Winchester in his hands and swears he’ll kill the first man that shows up on his land.”
Sleepy stretched wearily and threw away his cigaret.
“I shore didn’t sleep much last night. Every time I turned over I knocked the bartender out of bed, and every time he turned over he knocked me out. I ate more cheese, crackers and salmon for supper, salmon, cheese and crackers for breakfast, and I ain’t had no dinner today. Let’s put on a feed-bag.”
They went to a restaurant next door to the Black Horse Saloon, where they found Roaring Rigby and Wind River Jim, sitting at a table with Jimmy Moran. Roaring waved a fork at them, inviting them to sit at his table. He introduced Hashknife, after which Hashknife introduced Sleepy to all of them.
“This is Frank Moran’s son,” explained Roaring. “Owns the Stumblin’ K, and is master of his own soul, ain’tcha, Jimmy?”
“To my own sorrow most of the time,” grinned Jimmy. “Dad probably painted a scarlet picture of me, didn’t he?”
“He said outside of bein’ a proper damn fool, you was all right,” replied Hashknife seriously.
“Well, that’s kinda soft language for him,” laughed Jimmy. “He hates me because I’m such a success. Right now I’m just one jump ahead of the sheriff. Ain’t that right, Roarin’?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Jimmy.”
Jimmy was facing the door. Suddenly he slid away from the table, grabbed his hat from a nail on the wall and headed for the door. Roaring twisted his head around and looked toward the front window in time to see Dawn Conley ride past in the rickety old buggy. Jimmy was already outside.
“Bet she came back to see you, Roarin’,” said Wind River. “She was at the office this mornin’, and she told Ryker her old man was gunnin’ for anybody that showed up on his ranch. I reckon she was a little nervous.”
Wind River walked to the window and looked out, but he came right back, nodding his head.
“Her and Jimmy are in front of the office, talkin’.”
Roaring was staring at his plate; his lips shut tightly. Hashknife watched the expression of his face, as he lifted his eyes slowly and cleared his throat.
“That’s all right,” he said, trying to make his tone indifferent. “They’ve prob’ly got things to talk about.”
The men resumed their meal, but something had caused the conversation to lag. It was possibly ten minutes later when Jimmy came in. He sat down across the table from the sheriff, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands.
“Roarin’,” he said slowly, “Dawn wants to see you.”
“To see me? What for, Jimmy?”
“It made me laugh,” said Jimmy seriously. “You probably won’t see anythin’ funny about it. When Dad and Slim Regan left here this mornin’, Dad got the idea of goin’ to see Conley. I suppose he was goin’ to tell Conley what he thought of him. Dad would, you know. He hasn’t any sense of humor, I guess. And Slim’s a sort of a fool, too. He’d back any play that Dad started. So they went over to see Conley--or rather that seems to have been their idea. It--”
“Say!” blurted Roaring anxiously.
“Who got killed?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad, Roarin’. They got in reach of Conley’s Winchester, and Dad’s horse got killed. He piled on behind Slim, and they high-tailed it for the ranch. Dawn has the idea that you might be able to do somethin’. Might go out and explain to the old man that--”
“Me? Me go out there and--and-- yea-a-a-ah! Like hell!”
“Well, go down and talk with her, Roarin’. She’s upset.”
“So was your pa,” grinned Wind River Jim.
“But I can’t do a thing,” protested Roaring.
“Is the old man crazy?” asked Hashknife.
“He is not,” declared Jimmy. “He’s mad. He thinks they’re all pickin’ on him. He hates Dad. He gave me orders to keep away. His son is in jail charged with murder and he thinks everybody is against him. And,” sighed Jimmy, “he may be right about it, at that.”
Roaring got heavily to his feet, yanked his Stetson down over his ears and went scuffling toward the door. Wind River Jim choked on his coffee and wiped the tears out of his eyes.
“He’s a great sheriff, that feller,” said Wind River.