Part 9

Hashknife was looking toward the Black Horse Saloon, where there seemed to be considerable activity, and Wind River Jim stepped past him to the edge of the sidewalk, when a spurt of flame seemed to lash out at them from the alley between the office and a store building next door.

Almost before his ears registered the report of the gun, Hashknife felt the bullet sear the side of his neck, like the touch of a red-hot iron. Hashknife instinctively threw himself sidewise, drawing his gun. He heard Wind River drop to the sidewalk, but he thought that he merely did it for protection, never thinking that the bullet might have hit him.

He heard the scrape of running feet. He darted into the dark alley, regardless of the fact that he might be running into an ambush. He blundered around behind the store, falling over an old packing-box; finally he ended his run at the corner of the sheriff’s little stable.

For several moments he remained silent, but he could hear nothing. He circled the rear of the store and came back to the street between the store and post-office, where he met Roaring Rigby.

“What was that shootin’?” asked Roaring.

“I don’t know who it was,” panted Hashknife. “They darned near got me. Burned me across the neck. I chased him down the alley but he got away. Didn’t somebody fire a shot near the Black Horse Saloon?”

“Yeah--one shot. I can’t find out who fired it.”

“Foxy devils,” said Hashknife. “That shot was to draw me out of your office, Roarin’. I bit on it.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” exploded Roaring. “Could it have been Horse-Collar or Lovely?”

“No, they’re both in the office. Let’s go down there.”

They went cautiously past the alley and entered the office. Wind River Jim was lying flat on his back in the middle of the office floor, his face bathed in gore. Around his neck was Lovely Lucas’ blue silk muffler, tied loosely, and inside the loop of this was a long-barrel Colt revolver, which Horse-Collar Fields was twisting around and around, shutting off Wind River’s breath entirely, while Lovely sat on Wind River’s legs to keep him from jerking.

“You fools!” yelled Roaring.

He knocked Horse-Collar aside and untwisted the muffler as quickly as possible. Horse-Collar landed against the wall and stared at Roaring indignantly.

“What in the devil was you tryin’ to do?” demanded Roaring.

“Turny-keet,” wailed Horse-Collar. “Look at his head, you big bully! He’s bleedin’ to death.”

“Firs’ aid for the injured,” grunted Lovely. “Look at him kick.”

Hashknife flopped down in the old swivel chair and shook with laughter, while Horse-Collar and Lovely looked at him in amazement. Roaring didn’t see the humor of the situation. He wiped some of the blood off Wind River’s face and head; enough to discover that the bullet had merely cut a furrow, knocking Wind River cold.

“You can’t stop bleedin’ thataway,” he told Horse-Collar.

“The devil you can’t! I did, the time I got shot in the leg. Saved in’ life, too, y’betcha.”

“Who shot ’in?” demanded Lovely. “That’s what I’d crave to know--who shot ’in?”

“That long legged geezer,” said Horse Collar, pointing at Hashknife. “Shot ’im and then run. He’s dangerous, I tell you. Didn’t he shoot at me awhile ago? Put ’m in jail, Roarin’.”

“Drunk and crazy!” snorted Roaring. “Take a look at this wound, will you, Hashknife? If you figger it’s bad enough, I’ll send out to Conley’s place for the doctor.”

Hashknife examined it closely and decided that Wind River would be all right in a few minutes.

“Get some water and wash his head,” suggested Hashknife.

As Roaring started for the rear of the office, Slim Regan stepped into the office. Slim was panting from running, and he ignored the sight of Wind River Jim on the floor.

“Hartley,” he panted. “Your pardner got hurt. They’ve got him in the Black Horse Saloon; you better come.”

Hashknife was past Regan before the Big 4 foreman finished speaking. He ran heavily up the street and crossed to the saloon. The crowd parted to let him in. They had placed Sleepy on the floor near the center of the room, and the yellow light from the center lamp illuminated his white face. Hashknife dropped to his knees beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Sleepy, do you know me?” he asked.

But Sleepy did not speak. He was breathing heavily. Hashknife could see the blood oozing through Sleepy’s shirt. He had been shot through the body on the right side, about two inches above his waist-line.

“I sent Hank Pitts for the doctor,” said Slim.

Hashknife looked up at Regan, his face twisted with pain.

“Thank you, Slim. Does anybody know how it happened?”

Slim shook his head.

“He was out by the hitch-rack. Hank Pitts almost stepped on him, Hartley. There was a shot fired out there awhile ago, but nobody investigated it.”

“That was the shot I heard,” muttered Hashknife. He got to his feet and stood fretfully looking down at Sleepy.

“I seen him in the restaurant a while ago,” said Ted Ames, a short, fat-faced cowboy from the 7AL.

Hashknife nodded. He knew that Sleepy had gone to supper with Roaring Rigby. Roaring came in and shoved his way to Hashknife. His arms were still wet from washing Wind River’s head.

“How bad is he hurt, Hashknife?” he asked.

“Bad enough. They’ve gone for the doctor. Wasn’t Sleepy eatin’ supper with you, Roarin’?”

“He shore was. I stopped to talk with Jeff Ryker, and Sleepy went out. While I was talkin’ to Ryker I heard that shot out near the hitch-rack, and then I heard the one that hit Wind River Jim. I came out, tryin’ to find out what was goin’ on, and crossed the street. That’s when I met you.”

“Who shot Wind River Jim?” asked a cowboy.

“The same man who tried to kill me,” said Hashknife savagely.

“F’r God’s sake!” exploded some one. “’S gittin’ salty around here.”

“If there’s a blanket handy, I’d like to have some of you help carry him over to the hotel,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got a room over there.”

The blanket was forthcoming, and there were plenty of volunteers to act as stretcher-bearers. They put Sleepy on the bed, and several of the men waited with Hashknife, until the old doctor arrived. Among them were Slim Regan and Kent Cutter. Hashknife had nothing to say. He sat at the head of the bed, his lean face very grim in the lamplight.

It was the first time in their wanderings that either of them had been seriously hurt. Hashknife knew that only half of the plot had succeeded. These men, whoever they were, had planned to kill him and Sleepy.

It was an hour before the doctor arrived. He sent for more lamps, and the men held them over Sleepy while he made his examination.

“Close,” he muttered. “Went all the way through. Must have went through on an angle. Bad shock, lost lots of blood. Can’t tell all about it yet.”

He straightened up and peered at Hashknife.

“Pretty lucky, I think. Gut shot is very bad. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll pull through. Put the lamps on the table and get me plenty of hot water.”

Hashknife stretched his full length and sighed deeply.

“Glad, eh?” said Regan.

“Glad?” Hashknife blinked painfully.

“My God!”

He turned and walked over to a window, where he stared out into the night. The room was very quiet.

“We ain’t got much money, Doc,” said Hashknife slowly. “But if you pull him through, I’ll go out and kill anybody you want killed.”

The old doctor lifted his eyes and studied the lean figure at the window.

“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll take you up on that.”

“Name your man, Doc.”

“I can’t do it, Hartley; it’s a man who shoots in the dark.”

“All right, Doc, you’ll get his ears.”

* * * * *

Sunday was a dull day in Turquoise City. Hashknife hardly left Sleepy’s side during the day. Sleepy had regained consciousness and was pretty sick. There was plenty of company. Wind River Jim, his head swathed in bandages, insisted upon playing nurse while Hashknife ate his meals.

“That’s the least I can do,” declared Wind River. “If your old leather beck hadn’t deflected that bullet, it would have hit me between the eyes. And between you and Roarin’, you stopped Horse-Collar from chokin’ me to death.”

Hashknife told Sleepy about Horse-Collar’s tourniquet, and Sleepy cried tears. Even with all his pain he still retained his overdeveloped sense of humor. Later in the day Horse-Collar came to the hotel. He was sober now and had been talking to Jimmy Moran at the jail.

“I been talkin’ with Jimmy,” he told Hashknife confidentially. “He says you’re detectin’. Gosh, I didn’t know that.”

“What about it?” asked Hashknife curiously.

“Thisaway, Hartley. You can’t detect and set here. Tomorrow I’ll be here. I ain’t much of a good nurse, but I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s mighty good of you, Horse-Collar.”

“Not p’ticularly. I’m still workin’ for Jimmy, and I take orders from the boss. Old Conley’s out of danger, they say, and I heard that Frank Moran has paid Jimmy’s debts at the Black Horse. I’ll be here in the mornin’.”

Jeff Ryker came and talked to Hashknife, trying to see if Hashknife had any idea who had shot Sleepy.

“There’s been too much of this shooting going on around here,” declared Ryker earnestly.

“Well, you can’t blame it on Pete Conley or Jimmy Moran,” observed Hashknife. “Mebby it’s what you’d call an epidemic of crime.”

“That’s what it is. Conley’s trial starts tomorrow. He hasn’t a lawyer to defend him. The court will have to appoint some one to defend him, I suppose, and that will cause a delay. Personally, I don’t think a lawyer would do him any good.”

“You think he’s guilty?”

“Beyond a doubt. He went out to kill Mallette. Admits it.”

“Admits that he wanted to, Ryker.”

“I don’t know about that, because I never talked to him; but the evidence is all against him.”

Hashknife studied the thin face of the prosecuting attorney--the wry neck inside the misfit collar, the deep-set eyes.

“And you was willin’ to kill the case, if that half-breed girl would marry you, eh?” he said coldly.

Ryker flushed hotly and shuffled his feet on the old carpet of the hotel.

“That--that isn’t true,” he stammered.

“I never--”

“Why deny it?” queried Hashknife coldly. “You’re not the first man in your position to misuse his power, Ryker. You ain’t settin’ no precedent that I know of.”

“Oh, all right, I’m not going to discuss my personal affairs with you, Hartley. What I do is none of your business.”

Ryker turned on his heel and walked away.

“You stick to your own business then,” said Hashknife.

“And you stick to your own,” retorted Ryker hotly.

Hashknife laughed softly and went back to Sleepy.

The doctor came again that night. Sleepy had not developed any fever, and the doctor was jubilant. In the morning he was stiff and sore, but cheerful. Horse-Collar Fields came fairly early in the morning and offered to stay with Sleepy as long as Hashknife wanted him to stay.

* * * * *

The court was to open at ten o’clock, but Hashknife did not care about the opening of the case. He saddled his horse and rode out toward the Conley ranch. Near the ford he met Doctor Shelley and Dawn. The doctor had told Dawn about the shooting of Sleepy, and the girl was full of sympathy.

“He’s able to cuss this mornin’; so he’ll get well,” laughed Hashknife. “How’s your father?”

“Just fine, Mr. Hartley.”

“I wonder if I could talk with him.”

“Go ahead,” nodded the doctor.

“Don’t talk too long.”

Hashknife rode on to the ranch. He hadn’t the slightest idea of why he was coming out to see Conley, except that he had what might be termed a hunch. Mrs. Conley admitted him, and he found the old man propped up in bed.

Conley stared at Hashknife out of sunken eyes.

“I heard them talk about you,” he said huskily. “The doctor said your pardner got shot last night. Is he alive?”

“Yeah, luckily,” said Hashknife.

“I’m glad somebody has luck.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve never had much of it myself. My son is being tried for his life, and he hasn’t even a lawyer. I was goin’ to get him one, but I got shot. Dawn has gone down to be with him.” He shifted his eyes to Hashknife.

“Will they hang him, do you think?”

“Law is a queer piece of machinery, Conley.”

“Law for a half-breed, Hartley.”

“Law for anybody.”

“Mebby. They tell me you came with Frank Moran.”

Hashknife explained how it happened that he came to Black Horse with Moran, and the old man nodded.

“I hate him,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” said Hashknife. “It’s too bad, Conley. Hate never got either of you anythin’ but misery. Hatin’ folks is just like throwin’ a rubber ball against a wall. It slams back at you.”

“That’s true!” The old man’s eyes opened wide. “It does. Ain’t it queer that my son and Moran’s son should both be in jail at the same time. Jimmy Moran shot me, you know.”

“Sure of it, Conley?”

“He called me out and shot me.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. I don’t remember anythin’ after I opened the door and stepped outside. But he called and told me who he was.”

“He admits it. Oh, he’s sorry, Conley. He swears he didn’t shoot you. Why, man, he’s in love with your daughter.”

The old man averted his eyes and his bony old face twitched.

“That’s what hurts, Hartley--hurts worse than the bullet-hole in my side. That’s what hate does. I--I was goin’ to let Dawn marry Jimmy Moran, because I hated his father. Goin’ to help his son marry a half-breed girl. It wasn’t right.”

“It was right, Conley; he loves her.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to at first. I gave him orders to keep away. But I got to thinkin’ how it would hurt Frank Moran. That’s hate. I’m not fit for much. By God, I was goin’ to sell my girl! It’s the same thing. Love! Bah! What in hell did I care about love? But I’ve had plenty of time to think lately. I fenced Hot Creek against the Big 4, but I didn’t kill them steers. No, I didn’t, Hartley. I’m a cowman. I’ve been a cowman ever since the old minin’ days. Do you know, this ranch was a minin’ claim? It was. About twenty-five years ago I located this as a minin’ claim. In them days there was plenty of buyin’ and sellin’ prospects. You know Ryker? He was an assayer. Frank Moran was here. He had plenty of money to buy mines. He’s always had money.”

“You not talk too much,” advised Mrs. Conley.

“I’m all right, mother. It was great in the old days; but the mines played out. This was my last location. I dug my discovery hole just west of Hot Creek. There’s an old sycamore up there on the slope. It was a small tree twenty-five years ago, and it was there that I tacked my notice and dug my discovery. But things went wrong in the minin’ game, and a little later I homesteaded and went in for cattle. I went up into Idaho to buy stock and that’s where I met Minnie.”

“My father big chief,” said Mrs. Conley.

“Mm-m-m-m,” grunted Conley. “Not so awful big. You see, he stole some horses from me, and I went after ’em. I made him a trade for Minnie. He had six other daughters; so it wasn’t hard to make a trade, you see.”

“We get married, too,” said Minnie.

“We shore did; and I’ve never been sorry, Hartley.”

“Well, that’s great,” smiled Hashknife. “You better take a rest now, I’ll see you ag’in’, Conley.”

“All right; be sure and come ag’in’, Hartley.”

Hashknife rode around the house and headed for Hot Creek. He wanted to see that old prospect hole. He had a hunch that the Conley ranch was being desired for more than a winter water-hole and a shelter from blizzards.

He located the big sycamore and, in the brush at its base, he found the old prospect hole, which was practically hidden in an overhang of brush. It was an open cut, possibly five feet long, three or four feet wide, and not over five feet deep.

Hashknife was not a miner, but he knew a little about rocks. It seemed to him that there were indications that some one had broken off a little of the exposed ledge of reddish quartz long since the hole had been originally dug. Some of the quartz was badly honeycombed, rusty looking stuff.

He broke off a small chunk from about the center of the upper end of the cut, put it in his pocket and went back to his horse. His hunch was fading out now. It did not seem that this mere showing of honeycombed quartz would warrant any one’s making a great effort to purchase the entire ranch.

He rode back to the main gate and followed the fence down to the ford, where he dismounted and drank from the river. Sitting down on a convenient boulder, he took out the chunk of rock and washed it carefully, while the tall gray horse slaked its thirst and looked curiously at him.

A washing showed the quartz to be thoroughly honeycombed and not very hard. Taking the rock in his palm he struck it sharply against another rock, breaking it in several small pieces. For several moments he stared at the broken fragments.

Gold! It gleamed through the lace-like texture of the broken quartz, and there were even specks of it on his palm.

He examined it closely, knowing that it was gold. Hashknife had never seen rock so rich in his life. He tried to estimate its worth per ton, but gave it up. The rock was not heavy. It would take a lot of it to weigh a ton, and if all of it was as rich as this, it would be worth more money than Hashknife could estimate.

He put the rock back in his pocket. It was not hard for him to imagine what had happened. Conley had found a piece of promising float, located the property, dug a discovery hole and had never had an assay made. The mining boom had died, and Conley had never gone any further with the prospect.

* * * * *

Hashknife rode back to Turquoise City and went to the assay office, where he met “Mica” Jones, the old bald-headed assayer who ran the business for Ryker. The little place stank of acids.

Jones was idly reading a much-thumbed mining journal, when Hashknife came in and placed a piece of the ore on the battered old counter. Jones put on his glasses and picked up a receipt blank.

“Assay it for lead, will you?” said Hashknife.

Jones glanced at the sample. It was a most unusual request. He squinted closely at it and looked at Hashknife.

“There ain’t no lead in that stuff,” he said, giving an honest opinion.

“What do you think’s in it, pardner?”

Jones picked up the sample, turned it slowly in his gnarled hand and gave Hashknife a sharp glance. But the tall cowboy merely slouched against the counter, looking at other pieces of ore on the counter. Mica Jones swallowed heavily. He had seen the gold.

“It ain’t lead-bearin’ rock,” he said, clearing his throat harshly.

“Pshaw! Well, let it go then. I don’t know much about ore. Do you know anythin’ about minin’ laws, pardner?”

Mica Jones frowned. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes off that piece of crumbly red ore.

“Little bit,” he said. “Whatcha want to know?”

“Ain’t there some kind of a minin’ law that lets you go on a man’s ranch and locate a mine, if you can prove it’s worth more for mineral than it is for agriculture?”

Mica Jones carefully placed the piece of ore on a shelf behind him, drew out a plug of tobacco and bit off a huge portion.

“Yea-a-ah, I think there is. It was tried out five year ago. Feller jumped in on a ranch about ten mile below here and located a mine. Quoted that law and got a bullet plumb through him. They tried this rancher for murder, and the lawyer orated that this dead client was actin’ accordin’ to law; but the jury exonerated him without leavin’ their seat. It kinda set a precedent, you see. Out here--” Mica shifted his chew thoughtfully--“out here, you can hold what you’ve got, pardner.”

“That’s a good system,” agreed Hashknife. “Thanks for the opinion. Never mind assayin’ that stone.”

“Oh, that’s all right; come in ag’in’.”

“Thank you.”

Hashknife went to the hotel and found Horse-Collar and Lovely with Sleepy, who was resting easily. The doctor had been there and changed the dressing.

“Wind River was over here from the courtroom a while ago,” said Lovely. “They’re goin’ ahead with the trial of Pete Conley. The judge offered to postpone the trial until Pete could get a lawyer, but the bug-headed half-breed said to go ahead; he didn’t need any lawyer.

“They’ve got the jury already. Ryker ain’t particular, because he’s got a cinch. Him and the judge locked horns a few times this mornin’, and the boys had fun out of it. Roarin’ come damn near runnin’ everybody out of the courtroom. Dawn is up there with Pete--jist them two. I tell you it don’t look right. It’s jist them two agin’ the judge, jury and the crowd, not to mention Ryker. The judge says it’s a farce. What’s a farce, Hartley?”

“It’s a cooked game that looks honest.”

“Oh, yeah. He prob’ly meant that Pete ain’t got a chance. But Pete’s hardheaded. The judge asked him if he didn’t want the case postponed until he could get a lawyer. Pete asked him where in hell he could find a lawyer that knew who killed Joe Mallette. It made everybody laugh.”

“They’ll have Jimmy on the stand,” said Horse-Collar. “He’ll have to tell about that poker game, I reckon. English Ed will be a witness, and the doctor said he’d have to testify; but what good will it do the half-breed? They won’t be helpin’ him. Suppose Mallette did steal from Pete?”

“It’s murder, just the same,” said Hashknife. “I suppose there’s quite a crowd at the court-house.”

“Biggest you ever seen,” said Horse-collar. “Everybody in the country. I’d hate to be in Roarin’ Rigby’s shoes, if he has to hang Pete.”

“A-a-aw, talk about something’ pleasant,” said Sleepy.

* * * * *

Hashknife saw Dawn Conley after the trial was over for the day, and he talked to her for awhile. She did not see a single loophole for Peter. Of course, the evidence was all circumstantial, but there was plenty of evidence that Peter had left the saloon that night with a revolver in his hand.

English Ed had testified to what he knew about it. The old doctor, who was also the coroner, testified. Jimmy Moran had not been brought from the jail to testify; but his testimony would be taken the next morning. Roaring Rigby had told the court how he had outwitted the men who came out to Conley’s ranch that night to lynch Peter, and his testimony caused a laugh. Most of the men who had ridden through the hills that night were in the room.

Ryker had dominated the trial. The old judge, white of face, plainly nervous, humped at his desk. At times he would rebuke Ryker; but there was little dignity left in the man. He continually scanned the room, as if seeking the men who had warned him to leave Turquoise City.

In a half-open drawer at his right hand was a Colt revolver, fully loaded, and most of the time his hand rested on that drawer.

After Dawn had ridden away, Hashknife met Franklyn Moran. He had attended the trial and he told Hashknife much of what had happened. He was cheerful over the rapid recovery of Moses Conley, but he was curious to know who had shot Sleepy.

“You know as much as I do,” said Hashknife.

Ryker came from the courtroom and gave them a curt nod as he went past, carrying papers and several books. The sheriff and the judge were close behind him; the sheriff walked home with him.

“Scared to death,” said Moran, after the sheriff and judge were out of hearing. “The man is positively on edge. I don’t believe he knows what the trial is all about. To begin with, his nerves are all shot from whisky.”

“Are they?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure they are; he’s the greatest single-handed drinker in this country. I haven’t seen him for almost a year, and he’s ten years older than he was at that time.”

“I’d like to talk with him,” said Hashknife. “I believe I’ll go visitin’.”

“Good luck to you,” laughed Moran.

Hashknife hurried across the street and went through the alley between the saloon and restaurant. The sheriff and the judge were at the judge’s gate, talking together, when Hashknife came up to them. Roaring introduced them, and the judge offered Hashknife a very limp hand.