Part 10

For the next three days nothing startling happened at the Double Bar 8, except that Jimmy Legg labored hard with the intricacies of a rope, which invariably tangled around his legs, and a six-shooter, which seemed to ignore the target entirely.

Hashknife and Sleepy humped against the patio wall, absorbing many cigarets, while they solemnly gave advice to Jimmy, and marveled that any man could shoot away so much ammunition and never hit anything.

But Jimmy was persistent. He banged away merrily, satisfied if his bullet came within two feet of a tomato-can, at twenty feet, trying to follow Hashknife’s advice to shoot low. Apollo, the burro, entirely recovered from his creasing, humped back in the shade of the patio wall, and watched Jimmy with solemn dignity, jerking his one good ear convulsively at each report of the heavy Colt.

Nanah had watched with interest from the door of the ranch-house, until a misdirected bullet smashed through a window near her, after which she lost interest in Jimmy’s marksmanship.

Hashknife and Sleepy rounded up several head of Double Bar 8 horses, getting Marion’s opinion on them as a remuda for the coming round-up, and also trying them out. As a result, both of the cowboys were stiff and sore from the unaccustomed shaking which is usually meted out to a rider by horses which have not been ridden for months. Jimmy Legg had tried one, and then retired to the liniment bottle.

Marion decided to ride to Blue Wells, and Jimmy immediately offered to ride with her. Jimmy had not been away from the ranch since the mysterious bullet had nearly robbed him of an ear, and he was anxious to go to town. Regardless of the fact that his torn scalp had not been dressed by a doctor, it was doing very nicely, and he was able to do away with the bandage.

He and Marion did not indulge in much conversation on the way to Blue Wells, because of the fact that most of Jimmy’s time was occupied in handling his mount.

“This is rather embarrassing,” he told Marion. “I start to say something to you, when this fool horse goes off across the country. I’d rather be thrown off than to have my conversation interrupted every time.”

“But you’re learning,” declared Marion.

“I hope so,” dubiously.

“Jimmy, does it mean so much to you—to be a cowboy?”

Jimmy reined his horse back into the road, clutched his hat just in time to save it, and nodded violently.

“You bet! Say, it means an awful lot to me, Marion. Darn it, the more I think about it, the more it means.”

Marion did not question him any further, as they rode down the main street of Blue Wells. Marion dismounted at the sheriff’s office, but Jimmy rode on to the Oasis hitch-rack, where he had seen several AK horses tied.

At the Oasis bar he found Johnny Grant, Eskimo Swensen, Oyster Shell and Tex Alden. Johnny fell upon him with a war-whoop of joy and dragged him to the bar, while Eskimo and Oyster pounded him on the shoulders and examined his scalp, much in the way of a pair of monkeys, gibbering the while.

Tex turned away without speaking and walked outside, while the AK gang leaned Johnny against the bar and demanded loudly of the bartender that he work fast. They questioned Jimmy about the shooting at the Double Bar 8, and his progress as a cowpuncher. In fact, the questions came too fast for Jimmy to answer. But after the second drink he managed to catch his breath, and told them some of the happenings. But he would not drink any more.

“I’ve got to ride back to the ranch,” he told them solemnly. “I brought Miss Taylor to town, and she is down at the jail, visiting with her folks.”

The two drinks had made Jimmy rather expansive and he told them about his roping and shooting lessons; which caused the AK boys to double up with mirth.

“We was goin’ to stop at yore place on the way back,” said Johnny Grant. “Bonnette said to tell Miss Taylor that her outfit can use from our wagons. There’s plenty of room for all the bed-rolls, and three extra men ain’t goin’ to kill off our cook.”

“Well, that certainly is thoughtful of him,” said Jimmy. “I know Miss Taylor will appreciate it.”

“Aw, you better have one more drink,” urged Eskimo. “One more won’t hurt yuh none.”

“Well,” Jimmy smiled expansively, “I suppose not. But I’ll buy this one.”

All of which was acceptable, as it had been long enough since pay-day to find the AK boys in financial straits. They drank a health to Jimmy, and all walked outside. The main street of Blue Wells drowsed in the afternoon sun. A few men humped in shady spots, whittling, discussing nothing much in particular. Even the horses at the hitch-racks drowsed.

Suddenly a commotion started at the sheriff’s office. It was not a big commotion, but plainly audible on the silent street. A yellowish-red dog darted out of the office door, whirled around once, as if to get its bearings, and trotted up the street, looking back.

Out of the door came Al Porter. He had a heavy dish in his right hand. Only for a moment did he hesitate, and then started toward the dog, running stiffly, swearing. The dog was Geronimo, the Exhibit A, in the case of the State of Arizona versus the Taylor Outfit.

Running as fast as he was capable, Porter hurled the dish at the dog. But his aim was very faulty, which was attested to by a splintering of window-glass from the front of Louie Sing’s restaurant.

The AK gang whooped with mirth. Jimmy Legg, forgetting that ownership of Geronimo might cause complications, ran across the street toward Porter, yelling at him to let the dog alone. Geronimo stopped in an angle between the end of a bench and the wall of Moon’s store, and anxiously watched Porter, who had picked up several rocks about the size of eggs, and was preparing to bombard the dog.

Jimmy’s three drinks had made him reckless.

“You let that dog alone!” yelped Jimmy.

He was about twenty feet away from the swearing, perspiring Porter, who paused long enough to consign Jimmy to a place which was even more arid than Death Valley.

“By ——, I’ll learn that dog to bite me!” he roared. “I’ll smash in his —— skull!”

The first rock struck the end of the bench and glanced into Geronimo, who yelped more from fright than actual distress.

“Stop that, you dirty coyote!” yelled Jimmy.

Porter let fly with another rock, which narrowly missed breaking one of the store windows, and whirled angrily toward Jimmy.

“Who’s a coyote?” he snorted.

His right hand swung back to the butt of his gun. It is barely possible that Jimmy’s three drinks had ruined his perspective, because he whipped out his gun and shot at Porter, almost before his hand swung away from his hip.

The enraged deputy was off balance, unprepared, his right foot lifted, as he had been following the swing of his throwing-arm. And at the crack of Jimmy’s gun, his feet seemed to jerk from under him and he came down in the hard street with a crash.

Jimmy stood there in the street, dangling the gun in his hand, while Porter sprawled on his back, his knees jerking. The dog came running toward Jimmy, barking joyfully, and almost knocked Jimmy down.

“Good ——, go away!” panted Jimmy. “Gug-go away!”

The three boys from the AK ran past Jimmy, going straight to Porter. The sheriff and Marion were coming from the office, while it seemed to Jimmy that the rest of the world spewed out of every doorway. Then he lost his nerve. Whirling on his heel, he ran to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and went flailing off down the street, followed by Geronimo, barking wildly.

Porter got slowly to his feet, holding one hand against his head, his face a mixture of anger and wonderment.

“Where’d he hit yuh?”

“What was the matter?”

“Who shot yuh?”

Questions were fired at Porter, who groaned dismally and shoved the anxious sheriff away.

“That —— fool!” quavered Porter. “Who’d ever think he’d shoot? I was plumb off balance—kinda on one heel—and his bullet—take a look at it.”

Porter held up his foot and they beheld the reason for the deputy’s sudden drop. The heavy bullet had smashed into the high heel, almost into the counter, and the impact had knocked Porter’s sole prop from under him. And Porter had hit his head a resounding whack against the ground, which accounted for the fact that Porter stayed down a while.

“And he stole the dog!” exclaimed the sheriff.

“The dog stole him,” amended Johnny Grant.

“I hope t’ —— he keeps him!” groaned Porter. “I’m all through with that dog, evidence or no evidence.”

“But we’ve got to have that dog, Al,” insisted the sheriff. “That’s our main evidence.”

“Then you get him and do the feedin’. I never hired out as a —— menagerie keeper. He bit me on the wrist, and when I kicked at him, he bit me on the ankle and got loose.”

Tex Alden was one of those who had come from Moon’s store, and now he spoke to the sheriff:

“Just why did that dog pull out with Legg?”

“Why, I dunno, Tex,” admitted the sheriff.

“Why did Legg defend the dog?”

The sheriff looked blankly around.

“I dunno that either, Tex.”

“All right,” Tex smiled crookedly and shrugged his shoulders. He looked at Marion, but did not speak, and turned away.

“What’ll yuh do to that kid, Al?” asked one of the men.

“Do to him?” Porter took it under advisement. “I dunno. He might ’a’ been right. I was so —— mad that I dunno just how things was.”

“You reached back for a gun,” reminded Eskimo, and the other three AK cowboys nodded in confirmation.

“Yuh did, Al,” said Johnny.

“All right,” nodded Porter. “Mebbe I did.”

“And the kid thought yuh was goin’ to draw on him,” offered Oyster Shell.

“Well, what the —— is all the argument about?” snarled the deputy. “I’ll admit he was right. But,” Porter mustered a smile, “I hope that —— dog bites him when he gits off that horse.”

All of which ended all arguments as far as the guilt or innocence of Jimmy Legg was concerned—although Jimmy Legg, running his horse back toward the Double Bar 8, considered himself a deep-dyed killer.

He imagined that a posse was already on his trail, and once he saw Geronimo far back in the road, just topping a rise, and his imagination conjured up a dozen armed men, hot on his trail. The shooting had made him cold sober, but the taste of liquor was still on his palate.

His future was indefinite, because his thoughts ran in circles. He could see the big deputy, lying flat in the street, his knees jerking. Everything else was blotted out by that picture. He tried to remember just why he had fired the shot, but it was like a half-forgotten dream—something that had happened long ago.

His horse was plastered with lather, when he rode in at the patio gate and dismounted near the well. Hashknife and Sleepy were just coming from the ranch-house door, realizing from the condition of the horse that something was wrong.

“What’s wrong, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

Jimmy flapped his arms weakly, and there was a decided catch in his throat.

“I just killed the deputy sheriff,” he said.

Hashknife stepped closer and grasped Jimmy by a shoulder.

“You done what?”

Jimmy gulped and nodded.

“Ye-yes, I did. I—I—”

“Take it easy, kid,” said Hashknife. “Set down here on the curb and tell us about it.”

“I can’t,” Jimmy shook his head nervously. “I’ve got to keep going. They’re after me, don’t you see?”

“All right, kid. If they’re after you, this is a fine place for ’em to get you.”

“But I can’t stay here, Hashknife.”

“Sure yuh can, Jimmy. Let’s talk it over. Runnin’ away won’t help yuh none. You’d lose out.”

Geronimo came into the patio, dust-covered, his tongue hanging out, tail wagging. Jimmy had set a hot pace from town, but the dog had found him. He sat down on his haunches in front of Jimmy and put a paw on Jimmy’s knee.

“Where’d the dog come from?” asked Sleepy.

Jimmy looked at Geronimo, and Geronimo looked at Jimmy.

“He is my dog,” said Jimmy slowly. “It’s the dog they had in jail—the evidence against Taylor.”

“Your dog, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

“Oh, yes,” Jimmy nodded slowly. “You see, I was afraid to tell anybody.”

“All right,” said Hashknife. “Now, tell us about the killin’ of the deputy sheriff, Jimmy.”

And Jimmy told them, while the two cowboys asked a question here and there to clarify things somewhat.

“Well, it looks to me as if it was a case of self-defense,” said Hashknife, when Jimmy had finished his story.

“He really reached for his gun,” said Jimmy. “I realized it.”

“What I’d like to know is, how in —— did yuh ever hit him?” queried Sleepy.

“I—I suppose it was because he’s larger than a tin can.”

“Where do yuh reckon yuh hit him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” wailed Jimmy. “It must have been through the heart, because he fell down so quickly—and his knees were jerking.”

“That’s good shootin’, for the first time,” said Sleepy dryly. “Where is Marion?”

“Oh, I forgot her! I must have been excited.”

“You prob’ly would be,” agreed Hashknife. “What I want you to do right now is to tell me all about ownin’ this dog.”

“Oh, yes, about the dog,” Jimmy jerked nervously at the sound of a noise outside the patio gate, but it was only Apollo, rubbing his shoulder against the wall.

Jimmy sighed deeply.

“I suppose that was a dirty trick. But when I found out that—that the dog was supposed to belong to a robber, I was afraid to claim him. He ran away from me that night in Blue Wells, you see.”

And then James Eaton Legg went ahead and told them about his experience with the express messenger. Hashknife grinned, when Jimmy told of that battle in the express car, and of how the messenger had described him as being a big, burly man, who tried to draw a gun.

“His lyin’ saves you a lot of trouble,” said Hashknife, when Jimmy had finished his tale. “He didn’t want anybody to think he had been whipped by a smaller man.”

“I suppose so; but I’ll go to town and tell ’em that the dog belongs to me. I might as well shoulder it all now.”

“I wish yuh wouldn’t,” said Hashknife. “Let things ride as they are for a while. If they arrest yuh for shootin’ the deputy, mebbe yuh can make a self-defense out of it. Yuh say that the AK boys saw it? They’ll prob’ly alibi yuh, ’cause they don’t like the sheriff. Under the circumstances a man could lie a little and not bend his conscience too much.”

“Yuh should have stayed and seen the finish,” said Sleepy. “It would ’a’ looked better.”

“I know it,” Jimmy sighed wearily. “But all I could think about was to run away. I’ve never killed a man before.”

“Prob’ly the first time he ever was killed, too.”

“Oh, don’t joke about it! It’s a terrible thing.”

“Pshaw, I wasn’t jokin’, Jimmy.”

“I know, but—”

A horse swung in through the patio gate, and Jimmy almost fell off the curb; but it was only Marion. She looked at Jimmy and began laughing. Geronimo barked joyfully and tried to jump up to her stirrup.

But Jimmy only stared at her blankly, his mouth open.

“What’s the joke?” asked Hashknife seriously.

“Dud-don’t laugh,” pleaded Jimmy. “It isn’t anything to laugh about.”

Between chuckles of merriment Marion managed to tell them what Jimmy had done, while Jimmy, his eyes and mouth wide open, leaned against the curb, gasping like a fish out of water.

Marion described how Jimmy had ridden out of Blue Wells, followed by the dog, and Sleepy cried against the shoulder of her horse. But Jimmy was too relieved to laugh.

“Well,” he said solemnly, “I guess I’ll have to pick something bigger than a man next time. Really, there should be something big enough for me to hit.”

“You ought to attack a fort,” laughed Sleepy.

They unsaddled Marion’s horse, while Jimmy took care of his own exhausted mount. He was so happy that he tried to take the saddle off without uncinching it.

“I expect the sheriff will be out here soon,” Marion told them. “He wants that dog. It bit Al Porter twice today, but they’ve got to keep it for evidence.”

“They don’t know it’s here,” said Hashknife. “Let’s hide it.”

“Hide it? But that wouldn’t be lawful.”

“It isn’t lawful to hold yore folks on that kind of evidence, either. Where can we put the dog.”

“In the cellar,” suggested Sleepy. “The one beneath the kitchen.”

“But won’t they search?”

“Prob’ly. Put a rug over the trap-door, and they’ll never see it.”

It did not take them long to dump Geronimo into the cellar, where Sleepy made him a good bed and put in a bucket of water. The dog accepted his new quarters without any protest, and Nanah grinned when she put an old rug over the trap-door, and moved over a table to rest on it.

The three men were in the bunk-house when the sheriff showed up, about thirty minutes later. He looked around the patio, expecting to see the dog, and dismounted. Hashknife shook hands with him. Jimmy did not put in an appearance.

“You heard what happened in town, didn’t yuh?” asked the sheriff. Hashknife agreed that he had.

“It ended all right,” remarked the sheriff. “Except that the main exhibit of the Taylor case followed Legg out of town.”

“What exhibit was that?”

“The dog. Legg came here, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah. But I don’t know anythin’ about the dog. Jimmy said the trouble started over a dog, and Miss Taylor said the dog followed Jimmy out of Blue Wells, but it prob’ly went back.”

“Yea-a-a-ah? Went back—where?”

“Why, to Blue Wells.”

“I don’t think so, Hartley.”

“Didja search the town?”

The sheriff, of course, hadn’t. He had taken it for granted that the dog followed Legg all the way to the Double Bar 8, and upon sober reflection on his part it was reasonable to suppose that the dog had stopped and turned back to town.

“The kid was kinda scared, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.

“Naturally would be,” grinned Hashknife. “He thought he had killed Porter.”

“I dunno how he ever missed hittin’ Al some’ers beside in the heel. They wasn’t twenty feet apart. That derned tenderfoot is goin’ to kill somebody before he gits through. He’s comin’ closer every time. By golly, I dodge every time I see him. He’s such a bad shot that he worries me.”

As they were laughing over Jimmy’s markmanship, Lee Barnhardt rode in on his sway-backed mount and dismounted beside them.

“You rode too fast for me,” he told the sheriff. “I saw you start out, but you didn’t stop when I yelled.”

“I didn’t hear yuh, Lee.”

Marion came from the house, and Barnhardt took some mail from his pocket, which he gave to her.

“The postmaster said you forgot to get it,” he said. “I was coming out; so I brought it.”

The mail consisted of a few circulars and a weekly newspaper.

“I asked for mail for you boys,” Barnhardt told Hashknife.

“We’re not likely to get any,” smiled Hashknife. “Thank yuh just the same.”

Barnhardt turned to the sheriff.

“What about that dog?”

“Not here. Mebbe it never left town, Lee. Yo’re not worryin’ are yuh?”

“Not me. I’d be just as well satisfied if it never came back.”

“That’s what I thought. Are yuh ready to ride back?”

The lawyer shook his head.

“I’m in no hurry, Scotty.”

“Well, I am. So long, folks.”

Jimmy ventured out after the sheriff had gone, and wanted to know everything the sheriff had said. He was so glad to know that the law was not on his trail that he even spoke pleasantly to Lee Barnhardt.

Marion went in the house, and Sleepy sat down in the shade with Jimmy, leaving Hashknife with the lawyer.

“Naturally, we are both working in the interests of the Taylor family,” said the lawyer confidentially. “Now, I’d like to know what progress you have made in your observations.”

Hashknife looked at him keenly.

“I don’t reckon I understand yuh, Barnhardt.”

“No?” Barnhardt smiled knowingly. “For your own information I will say that Chet Le Moyne admitted your connections with the Santa Rita mining company.”

“He did, eh?” Hashknife was wearing his poker face now.

“Yes. It is rather difficult to keep a thing like that from becoming common knowledge. Folks naturally wondered what your business might be.”

“I suppose,” seriously. “But I don’t reckon it makes much difference, does it?”

“Oh, no. I have not mentioned it to any one; but I was curious to know what you had found out, because I am anxious for any new development which will serve my clients.”

“Well, I can’t tell yuh much. In fact, I can’t tell yuh anythin’.”

“Anything you told me would be in strictest confidence.”

“Yeah, I realize that.”

But although the Blue Wells lawyer waited patiently, the tall cowboy remained silent. Then—

“Just an inkling of what you are doing would serve to cheer up my clients.”

Hashknife shifted his position and looked Barnhardt squarely in the eye. The level stare of the cold-eyed cowboy caused Barnhardt’s gaze to shift. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Hashknife could read his mind.

“Barnhardt,” said Hashknife earnestly, “do you think I’m a —— fool?”

“Oh, no; not at all. Well,” Barnhardt turned away, “I suppose I may as well go back. No hard feelings, I hope. Being in charge of the Taylor defense, I would naturally be interested in any new developments in the case.”

Barnhardt mounted his sway-backed horse and rode away, his elbows flapping, his trouser-legs crawling up. About a mile from the Double Bar 8 he drew rein and let his horse walk slowly along the dusty road, while he took an envelope from his pocket.

The flap had already been torn loose. He drew out the letter and perused it closely. The envelope, postmarked Chicago, was addressed to H. Hartley, Blue Wells, Arizona, and the letter read:

Dear Sir: A wire from us to James Eaton Legg, San Francisco, California, brought a reply from his former place of residence to the effect that Mr. Legg had left there and had left his forwarding address as Blue Wells, Arizona. This may be a coincidence, or it may be because of some former information. Trusting that you will be able to furnish us with valuable information soon, we beg to remain, Sincerely yours, Leesom & Brand.

Barnhardt’s lips were shut tightly and the muscles of his jaw bulged as he tore the letter into tiny fragments, swung his horse off the road and scattered the bits of paper into a mesquite tangle. He turned in his saddle and looked back toward the Double Bar 8, as he reined his horse back to the road.

“Hashknife Hartley,” he said earnestly, “do you think I’m a —— fool?”

But whether Hashknife did, or didn’t—Barnhardt had no way of knowing. He could only guess, and possibly he guessed wrong. At any rate he rode back to Blue Wells in a black frame of mind, and the first man he met was Chet Le Moyne.

“I’ve just been out to the Double Bar 8,” he told Le Moyne. “And I had a talk with your detectives.”

“You did, eh. What did they tell you?”

“That would be telling, Chet. I told them I knew they were working for the Santa Rita.”

“Yeah?” coldly. “And then?”

“Oh, they didn’t deny it. But I don’t think they’ve found out very much.”

“Possibly not.”

Le Moyne watched Barnhardt ride down to his office, tie his horse, and go inside. The face of the handsome paymaster twisted angrily, as his gloomy eyes squinted against the sun.

“I wonder if Barnhardt is just a plain —— fool, or—”

Le Moyne shook his head and went on his way.

* * * * *

That evening Hashknife, Sleepy and Jimmy rode to Blue Wells. There were few people in town, and while Jimmy and Sleepy played pool at the Oasis saloon, Hashknife found the sheriff at his office. The sheriff was pleasant and curious, especially when Hashknife talked over with him the evidence in the Taylor case.

The subject of the AK boys’ locking the sheriff in his own cell came up, and the sheriff explained that the reason no one discovered his plight was because Al Porter, the deputy, was at Encinas, visiting a girl, and did not get back until morning.

“Does that Santa Rita pay-roll come in at the same time every month?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno.”

“They say that the paymaster always takes the money from here to the mine.”

“I reckon he does.”

“And somebody would have to know it was comin’ that day.”