Part 8
“Slipped,” grinned Hashknife. “Mind if I talk with Jimmy Moran?”
“I reckon not. I’ll bet they’re wonderin’ what all the shootin’ was about.”
They opened the jail door and went in. Pete was frightened. He thought there had been an attempt to take him from the jail. Jimmy laughed joyfully at Roaring’s description of how Lovely and Horse-Collar and Wind River had got drunk and had come down to get him out of jail.
“They’re a wild bunch,” laughed Jimmy. “All heart and no brains.”
“I want you to tell me about Conley’s shootin’,” said Hashknife. “I’ve got Miss Conley’s story.”
“What’s the idea?” asked Jimmy cautiously.
“Just curious, Jimmy. Tell me about it.”
And Jimmy told him everything as he had seen it.
“You shot at a man, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“There was somebody behind that bush,” declared Jimmy. “I was kinda excited, you see. No, I didn’t see where the shot came from; I was too far around the corner. But I didn’t see anybody after I shot.”
Hashknife continued to question--
“Was there more than two shots fired?”
“That’s all, and I fired one of ’em.”
“You went out there to warn Conley that the Big 4 outfit were comin’ out, didn’t you?”
Jimmy nodded quickly.
“What else could I do?”
“Did you skin out them brands, Jimmy?”
Jimmy shifted his eyes and a ghost of a smile passed his lips.
“You’re just guessin’, Hartley,” he said.
Hashknife smiled.
“Good guesser?” he asked.
“Mebby you think you are.”
“By golly, I never thought of that!” exploded Roaring.
“I’m just tryin’ to help you, Jimmy,” reminded Hashknife.
“I need little help,” said Pete.
Hashknife turned his head and looked at the half-breed. Pete was leaning against the bars, a wistful expression in his dark eyes.
“I reckon you do,” agreed Hashknife.
“Pete ain’t even got a lawyer,” said Roaring.
“Don’t need none,” said Pete quickly. “Damn lawyer don’t know who kill Joe Mallette.”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“That’s very true, Pete.”
They left the jail and, while Roaring went on a hunt for Wind River Jim and his two wild-shooting companions, Hashknife and Sleepy got their horses and rode out of town, heading toward Hot Creek.
Quite a crowd collected in the Ranger Saloon, trying to get a firsthand account of the gun battle, and they got it in three distinct versions.
“They repulsed us,” said Horse-Collar dismally. “Oh, the loss was terrific. There was bodies stewed--strewed all over the street. In one plash--jus’ in one plash, mind you--I shaw twelve dead men in one pile. An’ if that ain’t the truth, you can cut off Lovely’s ears.”
“Whozears?” demanded Lovely. “Horsh-Collar’s a liar. That long-geared Hartley shot d’liber’tly at my heart; that’s what happened. Jus’ lifted his six-shooter and shez t’ me, ‘I’ve gotcha faded, Misser Lucas.’ Jus’ like that. And then he pulled the trigger. It was the mean-esht thing I ever beheld. That feller’s a murderer--jus’ a common murderer.”
“A-a-a-a-aw, hell!” snorted Wind River. “You and Horsh-Collar are drunk. Here’s what act’ally happened, gents. Me and Lovely and Horsh-Collar went down to pay our reshpects to Roarin’ Rigby. We was jus’ as innochent as a unborn sheep--three of ’em. Hartley and Stevens was there with Roarin’, you shee. Well, they mus’ ’a’ thought we was makin’ an attack, because they armed themshelves with Winchester rifles, you shee. And when we came in, p’lite as hell, and shed good-afternoon, they opened fire on us, jus’ like that. _Bing! Bang! Boom! Bim!_”
Wind River struck the bar three times, emphasizing his vocal imitation of a shot, but the fourth time he missed the bar and hit his chin on the edge of it.
“They must be drunk,” declared the bartender, grinning.
“I’ll shay they are,” agreed Horse-Collar.
“Didja kill any of ’em?” asked Hank Pitts.
“All five,” said Horse-Collar solemnly. “Let’s all have a drink. My conscience bothers me. It’s the firsh time I ever missed a shot. Gittin’ old. Any old time I have to take three shots to kill two men, I’m all wrong. Whatcha drinkin’?”
It was about ten minutes later when Roaring Rigby came into the Ranger Saloon. He leaned against the bar and looked sadly at Wind River Jim, who goggled at him owlishly.
“H’lo corpsh,” said Wind River.
“Go stick your head in a horse-trough,” advised Roaring. “Drown some of the liquor out of you and then go back to the office where you belong. You’re a hell of a deputy!”
“Deputy?” Wind River’s eyes opened widely. He turned and hit Horse-Collar a resounding whack between the shoulders, the force of the blow knocking Horse-Collar against the bar, from which he rebounded and sat down on the floor.
“You quit knockin’ Horsh-Collar ’round,” ordered Lovely. “Who do you think you are, anyway. Git up and pile him, Horsh-Collar. Don’t let’m knock you ’round, the big bully.”
“Who in the devil got hit?” wailed Horse-Collar in a thin voice. “Lemme alone, will you, Lovely? Keep your nose out of my business, will yu-u-u-uh? ’F I want to pile Wind River, I don’t need no advice from you. Gittin’ so a man can’t even git knocked down, without somebody advisin’ him.”
“Give ’m hell!” grunted Wind River. “’S’ all right, Roarin’. I’m shober.”
Wind River cuffed his wide hat almost over his eyes, got his bearings and headed out through the doorway.
“Have a li’l drink, Roarin’?” asked Lovely.
“You boys better go home, Lovely.”
“Tha’ so? Huh! Whaffor? Nothin’ to do. We ain’t goin’ home until--whatcha shay, Horsh-Collar?”
“Drunken idiots,” said Roaring, and he went out.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy circled the Hot Creek ranch fence to where the wire had been cut at the north side and then they came down to the coulee where the Big 4 steers had been killed. Luckily they had been killed far enough away so as not to pollute the water. A coyote sneaked away from one of them, and a flock of magpies went chattering into the trees. Nature’s scavengers were swiftly obliterating the Big 4 losses.
Hashknife examined one of the steers. It had been shot in the head.
“Funny they didn’t hear the shootin’ down at Conley’s,” said Sleepy.
“A twenty-two don’t make much noise, Sleepy.”
“F’r gosh sake! No wonder. Probably used longs; them little guns are beef killers. Looks as though the killers didn’t want to be heard, eh?”
“Looks thataway,” agreed Hashknife, mounting his horse. “Let’s ride down and see how Conley is feelin’.”
The doctor had gone to town a short time before they arrived. Conley was conscious, but the doctor had left orders with Dawn that he was to see no one. She came outside to talk with them.
“What did he have to say?” asked Hashknife. “Did he know who shot him?”
Dawn nodded, her eyes filled quickly with tears.
“Jimmy, eh?” said Hashknife softly.
“Yes. The doctor wouldn’t let him talk much.”
“Of course not; but the doctor thinks he’ll get well, don’t he?”
“He thinks Dad has a good chance now.”
“Well, that’s great.”
Hashknife sat down on the steps and rolled a smoke.
“Is there much deer huntin’ around here in the fall?” he asked.
“Not very close,” said Dawn. “The boys go back about fifteen miles. They get quite a lot.”
“Plenty grouse, eh?”
“Quite a few; Peter kills lots of them.”
“It’s a lot of fun, if you’ve got a shotgun,” said Hashknife.
“Peter uses a twenty-two rifle,” said Dawn.
“Uh-huh.” Hashknife did not look at Sleepy. He had found out that the Conley family owned a .22.
They did not stay long. Mrs. Conley was sleeping, and Hashknife realized that Dawn wanted to be with her father.
“How much longer are we goin’ to stick around here?” asked Sleepy, as they rode back toward Turquoise City.
“Not long, I reckon. It kinda looks as though the Conley family killed those steers.”
“Well, that’s what everybody else thinks; so why not you?”
“I hoped they hadn’t, Sleepy, that’s all.”
“As far as ownin’ a twenty-two is concerned--there must be more twenty-twos in this country.”
Hashknife grinned at Sleepy.
“You do have an idea once in a while, cowboy. But how much easier it would have been if Conley didn’t.”
“I suppose it would. But what do we care? Let’s figure on pullin’ out tomorrow.”
Hashknife frowned thoughtfully. There were still things that puzzled him greatly, and he hated to leave things unsolved. The jury would find Pete guilty, and he would be sentenced to hang; that was almost a certainty. If Conley died, Jimmy Moran might get off with a sentence. It would all depend on the jury, and a Black Horse jury would give Jimmy the benefit of a doubt.
But Jimmy wanted to marry Dawn Conley, and nothing except complete vindication would ever give him that chance. Hashknife did not believe English Ed Holmes. He had a feeling that Holmes merely wanted to know whether Hashknife was going to work on the case.
It was rather hard for Hashknife to believe that old Moses Conley had cut the fence, herded in those Big 4 steers and shot them down just for revenge. Revenge for what? For something that had happened twenty-five years before. That would be ridiculous presumption. No doubt Conley had fenced in Hot Creek against the Big 4; but that was no crime. He owned the land.
Had some of the Big 4 cut that fence and killed the steers merely to have a reason for starting trouble with Conley? Possible but hardly probable, he decided. Slim Regan was a hard-bitted sort of person, but Hashknife could hardly believe that Slim would do that.
“You’re doin’ a lot of thinkin’,” observed Sleepy.
“Am I?” grinned Hashknife. “It ain’t doin’ me much good. I’m kinda stuck.”
“Glad to hear it. Mebby you’ll quit.”
“I might,” grinned Hashknife.
About a mile out of Turquoise City they met the old doctor, heading back to the Conley place, driving his old sway-backed gray. The two cowboys drew rein beside the road, and the doctor stopped.
“Hyah, Doctor,” smiled Hashknife. “Hear your patient is comin’ along fine.”
“Good enough,” answered the doctor gruffly. “Didn’t talk to him, did you?”
“The little lady wouldn’t let me.”
“Good for her. Smart girl; nice girl, too. Obeys orders. Feel sorry for her. Conley says Moran shot him. Lucky thing I’m pulling Conley out of it. Hate to see the kid strung up.”
The old doctor talked jerkily.
“Conley didn’t say he saw Moran, did he?”
“Didn’t say; suppose he did. Kind of hot today.”
“Little warm,” agreed Hashknife. “You’re the coroner, ain’t you, Doc?”
“Yes, who’s dead this time?”
Hashknife laughed and shook his head.
“Nothin’ like that, Doc. You handled this Mallette, didn’t you?”
“Naturally, bein’ a murder case.”
“Didn’t find any bullet?”
“No; shot in the head; bullet went on. You’re not trying to find out who killed him, are you?”
“Why not?”
“No question about Pete Conley, is there?”
“Might be, Doc. Tell me about how Mallette looked. Was he shot at close range?”
“Guess not. Not close enough to get burned. They said he had been drinking heavily. Drank absinth with his liquor. Darn bad combination. Wore cowboy boots. Funny thing about his boots. When I took them off I found a lot of gravel in them. I told the sheriff about it.” The doctor laughed heartily. “He said Mallette wasn’t very clean.”
“Gravel in his boots, eh?” mused Hashknife. “Man would have to go without a bath a long time to acquire gravel.”
“He would,” laughed the doctor, picking up his lines. “I’ve got to be going on, boys.”
They told him good-by and rode on. Hashknife’s eyes were keen now and his lips shut tightly. Sleepy looked closely at him, groaned and yanked his hat down viciously.
* * * * *
Sleepy and Hashknife stabled their horses and went to the sheriff’s office, where they found Roaring and Wind River Jim. The deputy was asleep on the cot, sleeping off his jag.
“What do you know?” asked Roaring.
“Not very much,” replied Hashknife. “I wish you’d take me to the spot where they found Joe Mallette.”
“Yea-a-ah? What for, Hashknife?”
“Curiosity, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh. Will you stay here, Sleepy? Got to keep somebody around here. Wind River ain’t much use right now.”
“Go ahead,” laughed Sleepy.
Roaring led Hashknife through the alley between the Black Horse Saloon and the restaurant, out past the rear of the judge’s home, to a spot between there and the end house of the redlight district.
“This is the spot,” said Roaring. “I wasn’t here that night, but several of the boys showed me the place.”
Hashknife studied the spot for a while, while the sheriff watched him curiously.
“Mallette was drunk, wasn’t he?” asked Hashknife.
“They say he was. Drank absinth. Some of the boys said they wondered how he was able to walk.”
“Powerful stuff.”
They walked part way back to the alley, where Hashknife stopped and looked back.
“Mallette came from the rear of the Black Horse Saloon,” said Hashknife. “He was headin’ for them redlight houses and he was loaded with absinth and whisky. Uh-huh.”
“That’s the right dope on it, Hashknife. What have you got in your mind?”
“How long was it before Pete Conley went out on his trail?”
“Prob’ly not much more than five minutes.”
“Long enough.”
They walked back through the alley, where Hashknife excused himself and went over to a general merchandise store. He bought a box of cartridges for his revolver, and engaged the proprietor in conversation. Their selection of ammunition was limited to a few sizes. Hashknife noticed a few boxes of .22 caliber shells.
“Yuh don’t sell many twenty-twos, do you?” he asked.
“Not many,” grinned the proprietor. “Pretty small ammunition. Pete Conley used to buy quite a lot.”
“Some places they’re popular,” observed Hashknife. “Is Pete the only twenty-two shooter around here?”
“Guess he is. Don’t remember any others.”
Hashknife bought some tobacco, and went out. It seemed to have narrowed down to the one twenty-two rifle. As he came from the store he met Kent Cutter, the boss of the 7AL. They nodded and went on. Cutter entered the store, singing out a greeting to the proprietor, who had seen Cutter and Hashknife exchange nods.
“Who is that tall cowboy?” asked the merchant.
“Name’s Hartley. Came here with Frank Moran. Heard he’s a cattle detective, but don’t know anythin’ about him myself.”
“He’s a level-eyed son-of-a-rooster.”
“Sure is. Gimme a box of thirty-thirties, Al.”
The merchant slid a box across the counter.
“This Hartley seemed to be interested in twenty-twos.”
“In twenty-twos? Don’t pack one, does he?”
“Bought forty-fives. Mentioned that I probably didn’t sell many twenty-twos. I told him Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in this part of the country.”
“Yeah, he’s got one,” said Cutter. “I need a pair of overalls, Al. Give ’em to me big enough. This cowboy idea of tight pants don’t appeal to me. So he’s interested in twenty-twos, is he? Pretty small gun for a grown man; me, I like a thirty-thirty.”
Hashknife went back to the office and asked Roaring to let him speak a word with Pete Conley. Roaring was willing. Hashknife told Pete that his father was conscious, and the half-breed seemed pleased. Jimmy Moran danced a jig on the cell floor and wanted to know all the details.
“What did he say?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “Did he have any idea who shot him, Hashknife?”
“He said you did, Jimmy.”
“My God!” Jimmy turned around and sat down.
“I want to ask you a question, Pete,” said Hashknife.
“Sure.”
“You’ve got a twenty-two rifle, Pete?”
“Sure,” Pete grinned widely. “I got little gun. Pretty damn good gun, too.”
“Fine. Who else in Black Horse valley has a twenty-two rifle?”
“Mm-m-m-m,” Pete scratched his head thoughtfully. “By golly, I dunno. Nobody, I guess. I not know any one. You want use mine? You tell Dawn--”
“I don’t want it, Pete--thanks.”
“She shoot good.”
“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife.
“What about a twenty-two rifle?” asked Roaring.
“You don’t know anybody who owns one, do you?”
“I don’t; didn’t even know Pete owned one.”
“You’re a lot of help to me,” sighed Hashknife. “Much obliged to you, Pete.”
They went back into the office and sat down. Hashknife knew that Roaring was itching to know; so he told him that the Big 4 steers had been killed with a twenty-two rifle.
“The hell!” exploded Roaring. “Do you know, I never even thought to see what had killed ’em? I’ll betcha Mose Conley killed ’em with Pete’s gun. Yes, sir, that’s jist what happened.”
“Why would he, Roaring?”
“Why would he? Why, the old man has hated the Big 4--”
“For twenty-five years--yeah.”
“Well, mebby it was to show Frank Moran--”
“Conley didn’t even know Frank Moran was comin’. That fence was cut. If Conley wanted to kill Big 4 steers for revenge, would he kill ’em down in that Hot Creek coulee, where the Big 4 couldn’t find ’em? He’d have to take a chance that some puncher would find that cut fence, and investigate. If Conley wanted to make the Big 4 mad, he’d kill them steers inside the fence and near the road.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I never thought of that, Hartley. You kinda reason things out.”
“And if Pete owned the only twenty-two in the country, do you suppose they’d kill them steers and then deny it? They did deny it, Roarin’. And if Conley killed ’em for revenge, would it be any revenge to deny it to the Big 4? It would not. He’d merely tell ’em to keep their stock off his ranch. And another thing, Roarin’; Moses Conley wouldn’t wantonly butcher eight big, fat steers in that manner. He’s an old cowman. He might kill a man, but I don’t think he’d kill steers.”
“Well, somebody did,” said Roaring foolishly. “Mebby the Big 4 killed ’em themselves.”
“Probably borrowed Pete’s twenty-two,” said Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m not interested in them steers. So old man Conley says Jimmy shot him, eh? That makes it tough for Jimmy; but old Frank Moran will shore hire a good lawyer for Jimmy. English Ed tells me that the old man paid Jimmy’s gamblin’ debt. English was down here a while ago. Asked about you. I told him I didn’t know where you’d gone. He asked me if you was interested in Jimmy’s case, and I said you prob’ly was. He said he heard that you took a shot at Horse-Collar Fields, and I told him what had happened. Ryker heard about it too, and he came down. You can’t keep a lawyer’s nose out of things. He asked quite a lot; but that’s natural.”
“He’s a queer lookin’ jigger,” smiled Hashknife.
“He shore is,” laughed Roaring. “Ryker is an old old-timer, Hashknife. He had that assay office for years. Knows minerals, y’betcha. But when the minin’ boom died out and his business wasn’t so much, he took to law. I reckon he had studied it before he came here. Knew quite a lot about minin’ law. He’s done pretty good. Got himself elected to office, and this is his third term. Makes me itch. I want to cinch up his collar. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And them danged cuffs! Him and Judge Beal never got along. The old judge knows law, and the prosecutor never slips anythin’ over on him. I heard old Ryker make the crack one day that he was aimin’ to be judge of this county one of these days. Could, I reckon--if the voters would elect him.”
“Was Jim Randall a good sheriff?” asked Hashknife.
“Best in the world! Why, Jim Randall would shoot a man as quick as he’d look at him. Good? I’ll tell you he was.”
Hashknife grinned to himself. That was Roaring Rigby’s idea of an efficient officer.
“Strict, eh?”
“You’re danged right. That’s why they ran him out. He was a fighter in the open, but--but he had a wife and kids, Hartley. I don’t blame him. If they ever send me a warnin’, my own skin will be my only alibi for high-tailin’ it out of here. I’d rather be a runnin’ coward than a reclinin’ hero.”
“Somethin’ to that, too,” smiled Hashknife.
“Yeah, and you better think about it,” said Sleepy.
* * * * *
Saturday night, as was usual in a cow-town, was a gala night in Turquoise City. Every cowboy in the country came to town, thirsty, full of song and looking for excitement. Wind River had sobered and was repentant; but Horse-Collar Fields and Lovely Lucas were still having a wonderful time.
They had forgotten Jimmy Moran and their escapade at the sheriff’s office; but they had never gone near the Black Horse Saloon. The Ranger was their happy hunting ground. Both of them had long since run out of money and were spending their credit with great prodigality.
“We s’licit your votes, gen’lemen,” said Horse-Collar expansively. “Lovely’s runnin’ f’r gov’ner and I’m sheekin’ nomina-shun for pup-president. Long may she wave. How’s all your li’l’ cowlets and bullets? Have a drink on the bartender; he ain’t treated since Sittin’ Bull stood up.”
“Lemme ’lone;” pleaded Lovely, “Lemme ’tirely ’lone. I’m tryin’ to think why I came to town.”
“Tha’s right; be intelligent, ’f you can. ’F that bartender would only think, he’d know it’s his turn.
“O-o-o-oh, I feel as fresh as a big sunflower That bends and nods in the bree-e-e-e-zus; My heart’s as light as a drop of dew That lays in the road and free-e-e-e-zus.”
“My word, what a shong!” exploded Lovely. “Lissen, mockin’-bird, I know what we came here for.”
“I crave to know,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “Yes sir, I ahnos’ deman’ to know. Don’t keep me in shuspense.”
“We came here to liberate Jimmy Moran.”
“My God! We did? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That was yesserday.”
“That was t’day.”
“My, my! Thasso? How time does fly. Was it only t’day that we had the battle? Don’ tell me. Where’s Wind River Jim?”
“Roarin’ came and got him long time ago.”
“Can that be possible? Ain’t Roarin’ Rigby dead? Ain’t he? My, my, I mus’ practise up. Shay! Let’s me and you go down and c’ngratulate Roarin’. He’s lucky. As shoon as the bartender dechides that it’s his turn, we’ll have one more li’l’ snifter and then go down to shee Roarin’.”
“I’d do that just to get you jiggers out of here,” said the bartender. “But if you ask me, I’d tell you to go easy on Roarin’ Rigby. He’ll salivate both of you.”
“Yesh, he will not!” snorted Horse-Collar. “He’ll eat out of my good right hand, tha’s what, eh, Lovely?”
“Oh, pos’tively; well, here’s a stiff rope and a short drop, bartender. May you eat well on your last mornin’.”
They took their drink, locked arms and tried to go through the narrow doorway, arm in arm. Failing in that, they went out sidewise and fell flat on the sidewalk.
“Thank heaven, they’re out of here!” said the bartender. “They’re the craziest pair of punchers I ever seen, and I’ve seen ’em all. Lie and prove it by each other. Owe me ten dollars apiece, and won’t remember it. Well, I won’t lose an awful lot. I filled up a half-empty bar-bottle with water, and they’ve drank it all; so I only lose fifty per-cent on ’em.”
But they didn’t find Roaring at the office. Hashknife was there, talking with Wind River Jim, and Horse-Collar looked hin over rather dubiously. Lovely sat down on the floor against the wall and tried to roll a cigaret. Wind River Jim didn’t feel very well.
“We came peacefully,” declared Horse-collar. “Kinda like a fam’ly re-e-union, you shee.”
“You don’t feel so good, do you, Wind River?” asked Lovely, spilling the contents of his tobacco sack over his knees. “I think you’ve got stummick complaint.”
“Ne’ mind my stummick,” growled Wind River.
“Don’ mind his stummick,” advised Horse-Collar Fields owlishly, and then to Hashknife he said--
“Wheresh Roarin’ Rigby?”
“I dunno,” grinned Hashknife.
“Ain’t dead, is he?”
“He wasn’t dead fifteen minutes ago.”
“Then I mus’ ’a’ missed him,” sadly.
“Gittin’ old.”
“You’re drunk,” declared Wind River heavily.
“Thasso? Huh! Not a speck. Lemins tell you--”
From somewhere on the street came the sharp snap of a revolver shot. Hashknife stepped quickly to the door. There was nothing unusual about a revolver shot on the main street of Turquoise City, especially on a Saturday night.
The only lights on the street were from the windows of the saloons and business houses. Hashknife stepped outside, and Wind River Jim came to the doorway behind him.