Part 7

“His outfit is responsible for your brother bein’ in jail, I understand.”

“They cheated Peter,” she said quickly.

“Yeah, I know. Miss Conley, what is your honest opinion of what happened last night? Did Jimmy Moran shoot your father?”

Dawn turned and walked to the railing of the porch; she leaned a shoulder against a post.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Hashknife kindly.

“Oh, I know,” she said softly. “I don’t want to answer that question.”

“All right, this one is different. Did you hear two shots?”

“Yes.”

“How far apart?”

“Possibly--oh, I don’t know.”

“Right together?”

“Oh, no. There was one shot just after Dad opened the door. I--I think I ran almost across the room before the other one was fired.”

“Did your father shoot the first one?”

“I don’t know. Just after the last shot was fired I got to the door, and there stood Jimmy with a gun in his hand. And then Roaring Rigby was on the porch, taking Jimmy’s gun away from him.”

“Uh-huh. What did Jimmy say?”

“He said he didn’t know what happened.”

“Didn’t know, eh?”

“And then they brought Dad into the house. Roaring looked at Jimmy’s gun and asked me what happened. I told about the two shots being fired, and Jimmy said he shot one of them. He said he shot at somebody.”

“Admitted shooting, eh? Miss Conley, is there any reason for Jimmy to have shot your father?”

Dawn turned from the post and came back to Hashknife.

“Dad told him to keep away,” she said wearily. “He hates Jimmy’s father.”

“I know. You heard Jimmy call to your father and tell him who was out there?”

“Yes, I think Jimmy threw some gravel against the window to attract us. Then when Dad asked who it was, Jimmy told him.”

“Was your father mad when he went to the door?”

Dawn flushed a little.

“I think he was, Mr. Hartley. He was expecting the sheriff to come out here.”

“Was he goin’ to shoot the sheriff?”

“Oh, no; they were just going to talk things over. You heard about the dead steers, didn’t you?”

“Saw ’em; I was with Moran when the Big 4 found that the brands had been skinned out.”

“The Big 4 did that themselves.”

“Skinned out the brands?”

“No, cut the fence and killed their own steers. They hate Dad for fencing in Hot Creek, and they want to ruin him.”

“Moran wants to buy this place, don’t he?”

“Yes, he has made Dad a good offer. The 7AL wants it, too.”

“Yeah? That’s Cutter’s outfit, ain’t it?”

“Yes, but Dad won’t sell to the Big 4.”

“I see. Miss Conley, I’m goin’ to get personal.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m goin’ to ask questions that you might not care to answer; but I want you to understand that it ain’t because I want to embarrass you in any way. Did Ed Holmes ever come to see you?”

Dawn flushed, but smiled at Hashknife.

“Once, I think. I wasn’t home.”

“Any of the Big 4 boys?”

“I should say not!” said Dawn emphatically.

“Cutter?”

Dawn smiled.

“Oh, he has been out here. Perhaps he came to see me.”

“The sheriff?”

Dawn sobered quickly and glanced toward the closed door.

“You don’t need to answer that,” said Hashknife softly. “He’s all right.”

“Yes; he’s all right,” said Dawn. “But what’s the use of these questions, Mr. Hartley?”

“Were there any others?” queried Hashknife. “Honest, I want to know.”

Dawn bit her lip reflectively.

“Well, there was Jeff Ryker.”

“The prosecuting attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Since your brother has been in jail?”

“Yes.”

Hashknife took a deep breath and his wide lips twisted in a faint smile. Ryker was the man with the big collar and the celluloid cuffs.

“Did you talk with him?” he asked.

Dawn shook her head quickly.

“I stayed in the house,” she smiled. “He talked to my mother.”

“And you heard what he said?”

“Some of it.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife took a deep breath. “Did he say anything about--uh--goin’ easy on your brother?”

Dawn flashed Hashknife a quick glance of interrogation.

“How did you know that?” she asked wonderingly.

“Guessed it. He could go easy at the trial, you know, and he might make promises to your mother. Does your father like him?”

“No, I don’t think he does. Dad doesn’t like many folks.”

“Is the judge a friend of your father?”

“Judge Beal--I think Dad likes him.”

“Miss Conley, how long has the Big 4 been tryin’ to buy your dad out?”

“For about two years.”

“Ever since he fenced Hot Creek?”

“Yes.”

“How long has the 7AL wanted it?”

Dawn frowned thoughtfully.

“Oh, I think it was about three or four months ago that Mr. Cutter made his first offer. After that Jeff Ryker came out and talked with Dad about selling out.”

“What did Ryker want with it?”

“He was trying to buy it for Cutter.”

“Oh, I see; he was Cutter’s agent.”

Roaring and the doctor came from the living-room.

“You better lie down awhile and get some sleep, Miss Conley,” said the old doctor kindly. “There isn’t anything you can do. The sheriff is going to send some of my things out for me; so I’ll stay on the job.”

“Didja get the bullet?” asked Hashknife.

“It went all the way through,” said Roaring. He took the bullet from his pocket and gave it to Hashknife. “We found it on the floor in there.”

The piece of lead was slightly battered, but not too much so to prove the caliber.

“Forty-five,” said Hashknife.

Roaring nodded and put the bullet back in his pocket.

“We’re goin’ back, Dawn,” he said. “Is there anythin’ you need out here? No, don’t bother about it now. I’ll send Wind River Jim out with the doctor’s stuff, and he can find out what you need.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” said Dawn.

“Pshaw!” Roaring cuffed his hat over one ear. “I wish I knowed what to do. Tomorrow is Sunday and the next day court starts. I dunno what cases are ahead of Pete’s. Your dad never hired no lawyer for Pete, did he? Thought he didn’t. I’ll have a talk with the judge. He’ll know what to do. Well, so long.”

Hashknife held out his hand to Dawn; she shook hands with him.

* * * * *

For a long while after the men had left the ranch Dawn wondered why Hashknife had asked all those questions. Why would an absolute stranger quiz her like that, she wondered? What was behind those level gray eyes, and that smile that seemed to drive her sorrows away for a moment? She was so sleepy and weary that she could hardly remember just what he looked like; but she remembered his eyes. And he seemed just an ordinary cowboy; the other man seemed to be one continuous grin and blue eyes.

Her mother, wearied from the all-night vigil, came out to her on the porch and they sat down together.

“Mose pretty bad hurt,” she said dully. “He talk long time ago. Long time ago he friend to Frank Moran.”

“I know,” said Dawn.

“Two strange men come,” said Mrs. Conley.

“With the sheriff,” said Dawn.

“What they want?”

Dawn shook her head slowly.

“I don’t know, mother. I think they want to find out who shot Dad.”

“Easy find out, Dawn. Everybody know.”

“I suppose.”

“Funny life,” said the old Indian woman. “Frank Moran hate Mose Conley; Mose Conley hate Frank Moran. Now both have son in jail for same thing.”

“I told that man what Ryker said to you, mother?”

Mrs. Conley looked curiously at Dawn.

“I told him that Ryker came to see me and talked with you,” said Dawn. “This man knew what Ryker said.”

“You tell him what Ryker say about turn Pete loose if you marry him?”

“I didn’t tell him all about it; he seemed to know.”

“Ryker tell him, Dawn?”

“No.”

Dawn got to her feet and looked down the road. Some one was riding up along the road. It was Ryker. Dawn knew who it was as soon as she saw him, even at that distance.

“Ryker is coming now,” she said. “I won’t talk to him.”

“I talk to him,” said her mother, and Dawn went into the house.

The prosecuting attorney guided his horse up to the porch and smiled a greeting to Mrs. Conley, who gave a short nod of her head in acknowledgment. He dismounted and came to the corner of the porch. Perhaps he wasn’t exactly sure of his reception.

“I heard about the trouble,” he told her.

“Pretty damn bad,” she said inelegantly.

Ryker mopped his brow with a clean handkerchief and came up on the porch.

“Met the sheriff and two men,” he said jerkily. “Out here, wasn’t they?”

Mrs. Conley nodded. Ryker cleared his throat harshly.

“I thought so. Know who those two men are?”

“Pretty smart,” she said. “Tall man tell Dawn what you tell me.”

“Eh?” Ryker blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”

“Tall man tell Dawn you turn Peter loose if she marry you.”

“The tall man said!” Ryker stopped, staring at her. “Who told you this, Mrs. Conley?”

“Dawn tell me.”

“Who told the tall man?”

“Nobody.”

Ryker scowled heavily at the Indian woman.

“You told him,” he declared.

“You lie. I never talk to man.”

“You told Dawn and she told him.”

“’Nother lie. He tell Dawn. Pretty damn smart.”

“Too damn smart,” growled Ryker. “What did Dawn say when you told her?”

“I can answer that, Mr. Ryker.”

The prosecuting attorney turned quickly to see Dawn in the doorway.

“Why!” he began breathlessly.

“I heard what was said,” continued Dawn. “The other time you were here I heard what you said, Mr. Ryker. Are you the law?”

“The law?” faltered Ryker.

“Yes, the law. They say Peter may hang for the murder of Mallette. Can you trade Peter’s life for a marriage? Is that what the law is for--trade goods?”

Ryker flushed angrily.

“You don’t understand,” he said huskily. “It isn’t a case of trading, Dawn. I--I want you.”

“And I don’t want you,” she said evenly. “Go home.”

“Oh, all right,” Ryker turned angrily and walked to his horse. He started to get on, but hesitated and turned to Dawn. “I suppose you know your father hasn’t hired a lawyer to defend Pete. The trial starts Monday.”

He mounted and rode away, cursing his own luck and wondering how Hashknife Hartley knew about the proposition he had made to Mrs. Conley. English Ed had said that Hartley was a dangerous man, and Ryker was inclined to believe him.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy rode back to Turquoise City with the sheriff. They had not met Ryker, for the simple reason that Ryker had seen them coming and had avoided the meeting. They went to the sheriff’s office, where several men had gathered with Wind River Jim, waiting for word of Conley’s condition. They went away after the sheriff had reported no change in the patient, and the four men sat down in the office.

“Pete and Jimmy shore ain’t lost no appetite,” laughed Wind River. “I shore packed plenty ham and eggs.”

“What did Pete say about his father?” asked Roaring.

“He didn’t say much. I saw Judge Beal this mornin’. He was cold sober, too. Looked awful white and was kinda shaky, but he stopped long enough to ask about things. He ain’t been out of his own house for several days, and I’ll bet he’s been on a big drunk.”

“Gettin’ ready for the openin’ of court,” said Roaring.

“What’s your private opinion of those warnings?” asked Hashknife.

“Search me. They scared Jim Randall out of his job. They sent the old judge two. The last one was the day before Mallette was killed. Mebby it was the same day. Anyway, it was their final warnin’--and the judge ignored it.”

“And he’s still alive,” smiled Hashknife. “It proves that the gang are four-flushers.”

“Yeah, it looks that way,” admitted Roaring. “But he’s been stayin’ in the house pretty close.”

* * * * *

Lovely Lucas was as good as his word. He came back to Turquoise City with Horse-Collar Fields, who came willingly. It was not often that Horse-Collar left the Stumbling K. He was a small, thin person, about fifty years of age, as bald as the proverbial billiard-ball. He had a slight cast in his left eye. He did the cooking for the Stumbling K.

Just now he wore a pair of misfit chaps. They belonged to Wind River Jim, whose waist measure was several inches larger than that which Horse-Collar boasted. He also wore a cartridge-belt and a holstered gun. Lovely led the way to the Ranger Saloon, with Horse-Collar swaggering along behind him.

“Hello, Horse-Collar,” grinned the bartender, a short, fat person, with a moonlike face and a damp curl of hair gracing his expansive brow.

“Boy, howdy,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “How’s chances to git drunk?”

“Best you ever seen. Ain’t seen you in a long time.”

“No, and you wouldn’t see me now, if it wasn’t that I’m needed here. Cities don’t appeal to me. I jist feel all cramped up in a city. What’ll you have, Lovely?”

“Some of that there corrosive sublimate which is designated as liquor. But before we salivate our lungs, liver and lights, I want to explain to you ag’in, for about the seventh time, Horse-Collar--we ain’t goin’ to git drunk.”

“And for seven times I replies to same,” said Horse-Collar. “When I takes the law in my two hands, I’m goin’ to have m’ stummick in shape to handle m’ brains. Gimme that bottle!”

“You takin’ the law?” asked the bartender.

Horse-Collar cocked one eye wisely, as he poured out a big drink.

“Right by the slack of the pants,” he declared. “They’ve got Jimmy Moran in jail, ain’t they? Here’s how. Well, well, well! ’F here ain’t one of them officers of the law!”

Wind River Jim had come in and was standing near the bar, considering them gravely.

“What about Jimmy Moran bein’ in jail?” asked Wind River.

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” grunted Lovely.

“Grab a glass,” invited Horse-Collar.

“I’m purchasin’.”

“I hadn’t ort to,” said Wind River sadly. “I’m deputy sheriff, you know.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Well, I might gargle one with you, boys.” But they didn’t stop at one drink.

Lovely bought the next one, the bartender stood a treat and then it was Wind River’s turn. By this time Horse-Collar was in the right mood to buy again, which caused the others to treat in turn. Eight drinks of Ranger whisky were guaranteed to either bring out all the latent forces within a human being, or to put him flat on his back.

Horse-Collar surveyed the world through rose-colored glasses; he essayed a song.

“Don’t shing,” advised Lovely.

“Tha’s the worsht of friends,” sighed Horse-Collar. “They try to run your business. What’ll you do if I try to shing?”

“I’m shorry, but if you shing I mus’ has’en your demise. Know what a demise is, Horsh-Collar? Tha’s the end of you.”

“Whish end?”

“Now, don’ drink no more, Horsh-Collar. Ain’t that verdict, Wind River? Horsh-Collar mus’ not drink no more. We’ve got p’tic’lar work to do. Win’ River’s goin’ help us, Horsh-Collar. We’re goin’ down and deman’ releash of Jimmy. Whoo-ee-e-e!”

Lovely cuffed his hat off his head and laughed deliriously.

“Thish is a lovely day,” he declared. “Win’ River Jim, yo’re triplets! H’rah, f’r your fambly. Let’s go up to the s’preme palace of vice and visit our old friend English Ed.”

“He--he’ll mashacree you,” choked Wind River.

Horse-Collar shook his head so violently that he fell against the bar and sat down heavily on the bar-rail.

“Havin’ a chill?” queried Lovely. “My Lord, you shore can shake. Havin’ fits, Horsh-Collar?”

“Ain’t nobody goin’ mashacree nobody,” declared Horse-Collar. “Let’s go and fin’ Jimmy. Poor old Jimmy. Oh, poor old Jimmy!”

“Can yuh beat that?” demanded Lovely. “Cryin’!”

“Git up,” begged Wind River. “You make me shick. Let’s have one more drink, and then we’ll go down and have it out with Roarin’ Rigby. C’mon, Horsh-Collar. A-a-a-aw, dry up!”

“You fellers start monkeyin’ with the law, and you’ll get hurt,” said the bartender.

“Will, eh?” grunted Wind River. “Well, I’m about half of the law around here, and I know what I can do.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy came from the restaurant near the Black Horse Saloon and saw Franklyn Moran and English Ed, sitting together in a buggy, the team of which was tied to the Black Horse hitch-rack.

Moran called to Hashknife, who went over to them. Sleepy sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and rolled a smoke.

“You’ve met Holmes, haven’t you, Hartley?” asked Moran.

Hashknife nodded quickly. Holmes laughed shortly.

“Yes, we’ve met before, Moran. Hartley recognized me. He’s got a good memory, it seems.”

Hashknife studied the gambler. It seemed rather odd that the man was admitting all this, and Hashknife wondered what his reason might be.

“I’m putting my cards on the table, Hartley,” said Holmes. “I knew you. At first you had me puzzled, but I remembered.”

“And then what?” asked Hashknife coldly.

“I’ve been telling Moran about you, Hartley. I’ve got nothing to conceal. I’m just as anxious to have things cleared up as he is. You heard about the warnings sent to Jim Randall and Judge Beal? Well, I didn’t send ’em.”

“No?” Hashknife smiled curiously. “Why tell me, Holmes?”

“Because I know you are not here for your health.”

“That’s true; my health never worries me.”

English Ed shook his head.

“Still suspicious, eh? Don’t blame you. Do you believe Jimmy Moran shot Moses Conley?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’d like your opinion.”

“Haven’t any. None of my business, Holmes. Must have been enough evidence to satisfy the sheriff.”

“It’s not hard to satisfy a sheriff,” said Moran slowly. “Holmes tells me that you have cleared up a lot of hard cases, Hartley. I didn’t know I was hiring a horse from a detective when I met you at Sibley Junction. I hired your horse and now I’d like to hire you. How about it?”

“I’m more or less of a cowpuncher,” said Hashknife. “I’m not a detective, Moran. Never pretended to be one.”

“Will you take this case?”

“What case?”

“Jimmy’s case.”

“Oh, yeah, Jimmy’s case. You mean--to try and prove he didn’t shoot Conley?”

“If it’s possible--yes, I’ll pay well.” Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“You’ve got the wrong dope on me, Moran. My skin is worth quite a lot to me. Even if I was able to solve a mystery, I’d have no chance here. Somebody would fill me full of lead before I got started.”

English Ed laughed shortly.

“Which proves that you don’t think Jimmy is guilty. If he was, why would you be afraid of getting shot?”

Hashknife shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t think Jimmy killed those Big 4 steers at Hot Creek, do you?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Holmes flatly.

“Somebody does,” smiled Hashknife. “Nope, I don’t want any finger in this pie; I might get it hurt.”

He nodded and turned back to Sleepy, who joined him. They saw Wind River Jim, Lovely Lucas and Horse-Collar Fields coming from the Ranger Saloon, and the sidewalk was not wide enough for them to walk in single file.

“What did they want?” asked Sleepy.

“Wanted me to clear Jimmy Moran. English Ed had filled Moran up with a lot of stuff. I wouldn’t trust Holmes as far as I could throw a prize bull by the tail.”

“You didn’t take the case, did you, Hashknife?”

“Not so much you’d notice it.”

“Boy, howdy! Now we can high-tail out of here, eh?”

“Mm-m-m-m. Let’s go down and see how Roarin’ is gettin’ along.”

They found Roaring Rigby sitting on the edge of the cot that he had moved into the office. His eyes were blurred with sleep, but he grinned a welcome.

“Took a little shut-eye,” he said. “Fixed me up pretty good, too. Ho-o-o-o-hum-m-m-m-m! Gosh, I shore was sleepy! What’s new in the world?”

“Nothin’ much,” replied Hashknife. “Roarin’, what kind of a gun did Jimmy Moran use?”

Roaring yawned heavily.

“Colt. I’ve got it here.”

He went to his desk, sat down heavily and opened one of the drawers. There were three guns in the drawer, and he placed them side by side on the desk top.

“This is Jimmy’s,” he said. “The middle one belongs to Moses Conley and the other is the one Pete killed Mallette with.”

Hashknife examined Jimmy’s gun. The hammer was still down on the exploded shell. It was a .45 caliber. He picked up Pete’s gun, a .45, single-action Colt. It was fully loaded and fairly clean.

“He had plenty of time to reload and clean it,” said the sheriff.

Hashknife nodded and put the gun back on the desk.

“There wasn’t any bullet in Mallette, eh?”

“Nope; went plumb through.”

Hashknife picked up Moses Conley’s gun. It was of the same model as Pete’s. There was an empty shell in one of the chambers. Hashknife slid it out and looked it over. Some one was coming down the sidewalk toward the office. Hashknife replaced the shell. He was half sitting on a corner of the desk.

Roaring Rigby was rolling a cigaret and Sleepy was busily examining a reward notice. Some one stopped at the open door, but Hashknife didn’t look up. His long fingers gripped the heavy revolver, a thumb drew back the hammer almost to full cock and let it slip.

_Wham!_

The big gun roared like a cannon in that small room. Hashknife had the muzzle pointed at the floor and, as the gun jerked in his hands, he glanced toward the door in time to see Wind River Jim, Lovely Lucas and Horse-Collar Fields.

_Wham!_

Horse-Collar Fields had yanked out his gun and fired so quickly that the report of his gun was a thudding echo of Hashknife’s shot.

_Wham!_

Lovely Lucas’ gun went off before it was out of the holster.

“You-u-u-u-u-u-u damn fools!” howled Roaring. He went over backward, clawing at his face.

Hashknife sprang sidewise, collided with Sleepy, and they went sprawling together, while the three drunken cow-punchers backed out, fell off the sidewalk and proceeded to empty their guns at anything and everything in sight. Hashknife and Sleepy sat up, staring at each other; while Roaring crawled to his feet and peeked over the top of his upset chair.

“My Lord!” exploded Sleepy.

“Where’d the nigger come from?”

Roaring’s face, except for the tip-end of his nose, was as black as ebony. He spat disgustedly and wiped the back of a hand across his lips.

“Ink!” he snorted. “Damn fool busted the ink-bottle and I got it all in the face. What in the devil is goin’ on around here, anyway?”

_Wham!_

A bullet came through the window and splatted against the end of the room.

“Shoot at me, will you?” It was Horse-Collar’s voice, filled with righteous indignation. “Show yourself, you murderer! Give ’em hell if they rush you, Wind River!”

Roaring wiped some more ink off his face and got to his feet.

“Don’t go near the door,” advised Hashknife.

“I’m not goin’ to. What started this here war?”

Hashknife grinned sheepishly.

“Mebby I’m to blame. I accidentally fired this gun, and them three men must have thought I was shootin’ at them.”

“Hunh!” grunted Roaring disgustedly.

“One was Lovely Lucas,” grinned Sleepy. “He said he was goin’ to get help and come back, didn’t he? Wasn’t he goin’ to get a jigger named Horse-Collar?”

“That’s right! Why, the dirty bum! And they’ve got my deputy along with ’em. See if you can find out where they are, Sleepy.”

“Is that so!” snorted Sleepy. “Take a look and grab a harp. Not me, brother.”

“Hunh! Well, they won’t shoot at me, I’ll betcha.”

Roaring strode over to the doorway, ducked convulsively when a bullet thudded into the wall behind him, and whirled in against the wall.

“I lose,” he said quickly.

The shooting had caused considerable excitement in the main street, but none of the three men went to the door until Hank Pitts, of the Big 4, came down to the doorway as a committee of one to find out what caused it.

“They’re over in the Ranger Saloon,” he told Roaring. “Anybody--my Lord, you shore got painted! Ink?”

“Ink! Nobody got hurt. Hartley accidentally fired Moses Conley’s gun, and them drunken fools thought we were shootin’ at them. Got a darn good notion to jail all three of ’em.”

“I wouldn’t; they’re drunk,” laughed Hashknife. “Nobody hurt.”

“I suppose that’s right. The darn fools might have killed somebody. Hank, if you see Wind River, will you tell him to sober up and get back on the job?”

Hank promised and went back to the Black Horse. Hashknife examined the shell he had fired, and a faint smile twisted his wide lips. He handed the gun back to Roaring, who was scrubbing his face with a handkerchief, trying to remove the ink, which had already dried in.

“Put that gun in a safe place, will you?” asked Hashknife.

“You’re right I will!” spluttered Roaring. “How’d you ever come to fire it thataway?”