Part 7

Geronimo apparently thought that the gathering was for his special benefit, for he cavorted on the end of the rope, barking, whining, sniffing. Suddenly he whirled around, headed toward Jimmy Legg, head up, sniffing. The scent of the man who had befriended him!

His sudden lunge almost yanked the rope out of Porter’s hands, and his paws scraped across Jimmy Legg’s knees, when the angry deputy jerked the dog back to him. Jimmy gasped with relief, looked up from under the low-pulled brim of his hat, and found the railroad detective looking at him.

The engineer and fireman positively identified the dog. The express messenger was not so positive, but said that it surely looked like the same dog. Johnny Grant, with a few drinks of liquor under his belt, walked out and took a close look at the dog.

“I’ve been at the Double Bar 8 a lot of times,” he told the sheriff, “but I never seen that dog before. I like dogs, Scotty. I never miss a chance to play with a dog, and if that dog was a reg’lar at the Double Bar 8, I’d shore know it.”

“Buck swears he raised it from a pup,” replied the sheriff.

“Buck wasn’t telling the truth,” said Marion. “He was mad at you for kicking it, and questioning the ownership.”

“When did you see it the first time, Miss Taylor?” asked the sheriff.

“When it came home with dad, Buck and Peeler.”

“The day after the hold-up, eh?”

“Yes.”

The railroad detective sauntered up.

“Where did they say they got the dog, Miss Taylor?” he asked.

“Why, they said it picked up with them, when they were on their way home from Yellow Horn Mesa.”

The sheriff smiled and told Porter to take the dog back to the office.

“I reckon we’ll hang on to the dog until we find out who owns it,” he said.

“But you can’t hold us any longer,” protested Apostle Paul.

“Can’t I?”

“It’s a bailable offense,” said the detective. “I suppose you’ll have a hearing tomorrow, and have your bail set.”

“And have to stay in jail tonight, eh?”

“Yes; unless the judge wants to hold a night session.”

“Which he won’t,” declared Porter. “Old Judge Parkridge will take his own sweet time—and it won’t be at night.”

The sheriff removed his prisoners and the crowd filed down the stairs. Jimmy Legg moved in beside Marion and went down to the street with her. Most of the crowd headed for the Oasis, and Tex Alden was with them. He stopped long enough to see that Jimmy Legg was with Marion, but went on.

“Gee, that’s a dirty shame, Miss Taylor,” said Jimmy. “They haven’t anything on your father, nor any of the rest.”

“Oh, I know it, Mr. Legg; but what can we do?”

“You might start in by calling me Jimmy. I hate the rest of my name. It’s James Eaton Legg. Sounds like a cannibal, doesn’t it. Parents never stop to think, when they’re naming innocent children.”

“All right, Jimmy—if you’ll call me Marion. Every one does. We are not formal out here in the wilderness.”

“I’m glad you’re not. My feet feel fine in those socks. I’ll buy me some tonight and give Buck a new pair.”

“Don’t bother about that, Jimmy.”

“No bother at all. Say, that Tex Alden don’t like me, does he?”

“Possibly not.”

“Does he—” Jimmy hesitated.

“Does he what, Jimmy?”

“Oh, that’s a little too personal, Marion.”

“I suppose so. You meant to ask me if Tex thought he had the right to say who I shall speak to, didn’t you?”

“Well, has he?”

“Only in his own mind.”

Jimmy laughed softly.

“Some folks are blessed with wonderful imaginations. Are you going to stay at the hotel tonight?”

“Yes, I’ll stay there tonight, anyway.”

They walked up the street and met Chet Le Moyne in front of Abe Moon’s store. He shook hands with Marion, who introduced him to Jimmy.

“You are paymaster of the Santa Rita mine, aren’t you?” asked Jimmy. “I thought that’s what Johnny Grant said.”

“Yes,” said Le Moyne patronizingly. “And you are the new cowboy at the AK ranch.”

“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Jimmy. “That’s me.”

Marion laughed.

“He’s going to be a good one, too.”

“As good as any,” laughed Jimmy.

“You’ve had a good start, I hear,” chuckled Le Moyne. “They tell me that you almost killed Scotty Olson and Lee Barnhardt the day you came here.”

“And never got arrested,” laughed Jimmy. “This is a wonderful country.”

Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens came out of the store, halted on the edge of the sidewalk to light their cigarets, and went on across the street.

“Who are those men?” asked Marion. “I noticed the tall one looking at me in the courtroom.”

“One—the tall one—is named Hartley,” said Jimmy. “The other is Stevens. They met us at the forks of the road this evening, and rode in with us. They’re strangers here, it seems.”

Marion and Jimmy strolled on toward the hotel and Le Moyne went to the store. Hashknife and Sleepy mingled with the crowd in the Oasis, and finally took seats at a table near the rear of the place. Business was good, all the games filled, and the bar was doing a big business.

The engineer, fireman and the express messenger came over to the saloon and joined the crowd at the bar.

“Plenty of excitement,” observed Hashknife. “This hold-up seems to have kinda stirred up Blue Wells, Sleepy.”

“Yeah,” Sleepy did not seem to be very enthusiastic.

“Aw, shake yore hide,” grinned Hashknife. “You act like a mourner at a funeral, cowboy.”

“I’m all right,” muttered Sleepy. “But it makes me tired. Every time we go anywhere, somethin’ happens. There’s no peace anywhere. When them fellers was tellin’ about that hold-up, yore nose was twitchin’ like the nose of a pointer dog. Dang it, me and you didn’t come here to hunt bandits.”

Hashknife chuckled softly.

“And I’m not huntin’ ’em, Sleepy. What do yuh think of that? I ain’t lost no bandits. It’s nothin’ to me how many pay-rolls they steal.”

“Then don’t say nothin’ more about that girl, Hashknife. Ever since you got a look at her, you’ve spoke about her several times.”

“Pshaw! I didn’t realize it, Sleepy. Mebbe I just remarked about her folks all bein’ in jail.”

“Let ’em stay in jail,” grunted Sleepy heartlessly. “They prob’ly robbed that train. We didn’t come here to—”

“I know that sentence by heart, Sleepy. And you ought to know my reply. But that don’t alter the fact that she’s one pretty girl.”

“There yuh go!” gloomily.

Johnny Grant had spotted them and was coming their way, slightly unsteady on his legs, but grinning widely.

“C’mon and have a drink,” he urged. “I jist runs four-bits into a ten-spot in the black-jack game. If yuh don’t drink yuh can have a see-gar. But I warns yuh, their see-gars are a lot older than the liquor they sell. C’mon up to the bar and meet some of the folks.”

Neither of them wanted a drink, but they did want to be friendly with Johnny Grant and his crowd; so they elbowed their way to the bar. Ed Gast and Bill Bailey, of the X Bar 6, were at the bar, and Johnny introduced them, after which he deposited his money on the bar, and demanded action.

“Beatin’ that game is as easy as holdin’ up a train,” he declared, chuckling. “Runs four-bits up to ten dollars, and sticks my thumb at m’ nose at the dealer.”

Hashknife noticed that the sheriff was at the bar, and that Johnny’s remark interested him.

“Except that yuh can’t very well lose at holdin’ up a train,” added Eskimo Swenson, who had caught the sheriff’s reflection in the mirror. “If yuh ever get the money in yore hands, yo’re as safe as a church. Political affluence shore as —— don’t make a sheriff a man-catcher.”

Realizing that this conversation was for his benefit, the sheriff moved away from the bar, while the AK boys chuckled over their drinks. Even Sleepy Stevens shed his pessimistic attitude and grinned.

“These are home folks,” he said to Hashknife. “It appears that the sheriff ain’t standin’ very well with the AK.”

“Aw, he’s all right,” said Oyster. “Scotty’s as good as the average sheriff, except that he’s too serious. He’d give his right eye for a chance to prove first degree murder agin’ the whole AK outfit, because we devil him. He’s—”

The men at the bar jerked around when from out in the street came the unmistakable sound of a revolver shot.

“Somebody celebratin’,” decided Johnny Grant, as the sheriff and several men moved to the doorway and went outside. They gulped their drinks, and went out into the street, where the only lights were those from the saloon and store windows.

“Somebody tryin’ to be funny,” grumbled the sheriff.

He went back into the Oasis. Some men had come from Moon’s store across the street, evidently wondering who had fired the shot. Two men with a lantern were fussing around a wagon in front of the blacksmith shop. One of the men came across from the store and went into the Oasis. It was Chet Le Moyne.

“Well, I reckon it was some puncher wishful of makin’ a noise,” decided Johnny Grant. They turned and were going back into the saloon, when some one called from the hotel, which was across the street, and about a block north of the Oasis.

“C’mere!” yelled the man. He was evidently calling to some one in the hotel. “Come out and help me with this feller!”

“That sounds like somethin’ wrong,” said Hashknife. “Let’s go and see what it is.”

They hurried up the street and crossed to the hotel, where several men had gathered around a man who was lying flat on the ground.

“He’s been shot,” they heard one of them say. “Better pack him into the hotel and send for a doctor.”

A man scratched a match, but it flickered out. Hashknife shoved him aside, dropped on his knees beside the man, and ignited a match, with a snap of his thumb-nail. The illumination showed a gory face, gray as ashes, where the blood had not stained.

“My ——!” blurted Johnny. “It’s Jimmy Legg!”

He dropped on his knees beside Hashknife, grasping Jimmy’s shoulders.

“Hey! Jimmy!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t shake him!” roared Eskimo. “You big idiot!”

“Somebody go and find a doctor,” ordered Hashknife. “We’ll take him in the hotel.”

They carried him into the little hotel office, where there was light enough for them to discover that Jimmy Legg had missed death by a very scant margin. The bullet had struck him just above his left ear, slanted along his skull, and had furrowed deeply for about three inches.

Some one had gone after a doctor, and in the meantime Hashknife secured a basin of water and a towel, with which he mopped some of the blood away.

“I heard that shot,” said the proprietor of the hotel. “I thought it was somebody just makin’ a noise. Say, I seen that young feller talkin’ to Miss Taylor not five minutes ago. They was just outside the door there.”

“To Miss Taylor, eh?” Johnny blinked at the lamp. “Is she here now?”

The commotion in the office attracted Marion’s attention, and she was standing in the hallway door when Johnny spoke.

“I’m here,” she said. “What do you want of me?”

The cowboys removed their hats, as Johnny went toward her.

“You was talkin’ with Jimmy Legg a few minutes ago?” he asked.

“Why yes.” She was unable to see the man on the floor.

“Well, he got shot,” said Johnny bluntly.

“Shot?” Marion jerked forward. “Did somebody—not dead?”

“He ain’t badly hurt, ma’am,” said Hashknife. “The doctor will fix him up in no time.”

Marion came forward to where she could see. Her face was white and her two hands were clenched tightly, as she looked at Jimmy Legg, stretched on the floor.

“Why, I just left him a minute or so ago,” she whispered. “Where did it happen?”

“Jist out in the street,” replied Johnny.

“By ——, I want to find the jasper that shot the poor devil!”

“If yuh do, don’t keep it to yourself,” growled Eskimo.

Marion stopped at the desk, bracing herself with one hand.

“Who would shoot him?” wondered Eskimo. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody. If it had been one of us—”

“That would be justified,” finished Johnny Grant.

Jimmy Legg lifted his head and stared around, blinking his eyes.

“What was it?” he whispered.

“Somebody took a shot at yuh,” said Johnny quickly.

Jimmy Legg felt of his head.

“Hit me, didn’t they?”

At this moment the doctor arrived, ordered them to carry Jimmy to a room, and proceeded to fix up the wound. Marion insisted on helping him, and Jimmy blinked his gratitude.

“Did you see the man who shot at you?” asked Marion.

“I never knew I was shot, until I woke up, Marion. You had just gone into the hotel, and I started to cross the street, when I saw a big flash, like an explosion. But I never heard the noise.”

The doctor washed and sewed up the wound. It was a painful proceeding, but Jimmy gritted his teeth and did not make a sound.

“You better get a room here at the hotel and go to bed,” advised the doctor. But Jimmy refused.

“I’m all right,” he insisted. “It aches a little, but not enough to put me in bed. Gee, it sure knocked me out!”

“And you’re lucky to be alive,” said the doctor, packing his kit-bag. “An inch further to the right, and you’d have no top on your head right now.”

The crowd was just outside the door, waiting for the doctor to finish, and they crowded in, hardly giving the doctor a chance to wiggle his way out into the hall. Jimmy held out his hand to Marion, disregarding the clamoring cowboys.

“Thank you,” he said. “It was nice of you to stay with me.”

Marion colored slightly, and her reply was drowned in Johnny Grant’s greeting.

“Hyah, Topknot! Howsa head, Jimmy?”

“Don’t jiggle me!” laughed Jimmy. “My face is so tight I can hardly laugh.”

“Don’t laugh,” advised Eskimo. “Now who do yuh know that might hate yuh enough to shoot yuh, Jimmy?”

Jimmy frowned painfully at the floor, and when he looked up he caught Marion’s eye. Tex Alden’s threat came back to him—

“The Blue Wells country is sure damp for your kind.”

Jimmy tried to smile, but it was only a grimace.

“I dunno,” he said slowly. “I haven’t had any trouble with any one here, except that day I accidently shot at the sheriff and the lawyer.”

“But that was an accident,” said Johnny. “Nobody blames yuh for that. Somebody wanted to kill yuh, kid.”

“Maybe,” faltered Jimmy, “they mistook me for somebody else.”

As Jimmy spoke he was looking at Marion, and he switched his eyes to Hashknife, who was watching him closely. The eyes of the tall cowboy seemed to bore into him, and Jimmy turned away.

“You was talkin’ with Miss Taylor just a minute or so before yuh got shot, eh?” Oyster Shell had an idea.

“Yes,”

“Uh-hah!”

“What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Johnny.

“Aw, let’s go and get a drink,” suggested Oyster. “Jimmy is all right. How about yuh, Jimmy?”

“I’m fine,” replied Jimmy. “Except that my feet don’t track and there’s a ton of rocks on my head—I’m as good as ever.”

They moved out of the hotel and headed for the Oasis, where Jimmy was the center of attraction. Le Moyne and Dug Haley were there. Johnny introduced them to Hashknife and Sleepy, and they all drank to the poor aim of some bushwhacker.

After a few more drinks the AK boys decided to go home. Jimmy’s head was bothering him, and Johnny Grant decided that a bunk was the best place for Jimmy Legg. Before they left, the sheriff and deputy bustled in, having just heard of the shooting, and wanted a detailed account of it.

“Aw, whatsa use?” wailed Eskimo. “Somebody popped Jimmy on the head with a bullet, and that’s all there is to it. Unless petrification sets in, he’ll be able to fall off a horse agin’ tomorrow—as usual. C’mon.”

And the sheriff was obliged to get his information from those who knew as much about it as the AK boys did. He went back to his office with Al Porter, and they sat down to discuss it.

“Well, who do yuh think tried to kill the tenderfoot?” queried Porter.

“If we didn’t have three men in jail, facin’ a charge of holdin’ up a train, I’d say that this here Legg person was the fourth one of the gang, and that some of ’em tried to bump him off for somethin’.”

“Well, I’ll be ——!” snorted Porter. “If we can’t hang it on to the Taylor gang, that might be worth workin’ on, Scotty. But who are these two strange cowpunchers who rode in with the AK gang tonight? Johnny Grant acts kinda friendly with ’em.”

“I don’t know, Al. I reckon I’ll hit the hay. Tomorrow we hold a hearin’ for the Taylor gang, and we’ll see what we’ll see. You better feed that —— dog before yuh go to bed, or he might mistake old Judge Parkridge for a strip of jerky. —— knows, he looks like one.”

IX—COMPLICATIONS

The Taylor hearing was more or less of a farce, but it left Apostle Paul, Buck and Peeler, the half-breed, high and dry in the Blue Wells jail until the next term of court. Old Judge Parkridge, near-sighted, more than slightly deaf, a mummified old jurist, set their bail at one thousand dollars cash, each—bail which no one would furnish.

There was no evidence against them, except the fact that they had the dog, and that they could not prove that they had spent the night on Yellow Horn Mesa. So they were formally charged with train robbery and held until the next session of court, which would not be held for three weeks.

Apostle Paul Taylor cursed the judge, who could not hear it, and went back to the jail, followed by Buck and Peeler. Marion was broken-hearted, but did not show it. She sat down in the sheriff’s office and tried to reason out just what to do. The Double Bar 8 could not afford to hire men, and she could not do the work alone.

The sheriff did not try to solace her. He was tongue-tied in her presence. Then Tex Alden showed up. He had not been at the hearing, but had been told all about it.

“That’s sure tough, Marion,” he told her. “I’ll tell yuh what I’ll do—I’ll send some of my men down to run the ranch for yuh, and it won’t cost yuh a cent.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Alden.”

Tex colored quickly. It was the first time she had ever called him “Mr. Alden.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked quickly. “What have I done?”

“You know what you did,” she retorted. “Please don’t bother yourself about my affairs.”

Tex stared at her wonderingly.

“Well, for gosh sake!” he blurted. “Hm-m-m-m! Whatsa matter now?”

But Marion turned away from him and stared out through one of the dirty windows. Tex whistled softly and walked outside. He stopped, turned, as if to go back, but changed his mind and went on up the street, whistling unmusically between his teeth, his brow furrowed.

Lee Barnhardt, the lawyer, was coming from his office, and met Tex in front of the general store.

“Wasn’t that a —— of a verdict, Tex?” he asked

“Verdict? Oh, yeah.” Tex looked thoughtfully at the lean-faced attorney. “I’m wonderin’ who’ll run the Double Bar 8 until after the trial, Lee?”

“I don’t know; never thought about it, Tex. Say, did you hear about that AK tenderfoot getting shot last night?”

“Legg?”

“Yes. Some one shot him last night, almost in front of the hotel.”

“Yea-a-ah? Kill him?”

“No,” Barnhardt laughed. “Skull was too hard, I guess. He had been standing there, talking with Marion Taylor, and just after she went into the hotel, some one shot him. But he was able to ride back to the AK; so I guess he’s all right.”

Tex took a deep breath and looked back toward the sheriff’s office. Marion was coming up the street. He turned to Barnhardt.

“I hadn’t heard about it, Lee. I left just after the trainmen had identified the dog.” Tex turned on his heel and went across the street, disappearing in the Oasis saloon.

Marion joined Barnhardt and they walked to his office. The girl did not like Barnhardt, but her father had engaged him to handle their defense. Hashknife and Sleepy had talked with several of the cowboys, and it was their opinion that none of the cattle outfits would put on extra men until the round-up.

Hashknife went to the sheriff’s office and had a talk with Scotty Olson. Hashknife had heard the cowboys talking about the Double Bar 8, and the fact that there was no one, except the girl, to run the ranch. Hashknife explained to the sheriff that he and Sleepy would be willing to run the Double Bar 8, at least until the round-up started, and without wages.

“What’s the idea?” queried Scotty. It looked fishy to him.

“Merely helpin’ out,” smiled Hashknife. “It’ll save us a hotel bill, and we might as well be workin’ as settin’ around a saloon.” Scotty smoothed his mustaches and admitted that it would be a great help to the Taylor family.

“C’mon in and meet Apostle Paul,” suggested the sheriff.

Hashknife followed him to the cells and was introduced to Marion’s father, who scrutinized Hashknife closely, when the sheriff explained what Hartley and his partner were willing to do.

“I thought mebbe Tex Alden would help us out,” said the old man.

“Yuh can hang that idea up in the smokehouse,” said the sheriff. “Tex met yore daughter a while ago, and she kinda snubbed him up real short, Paul.”

“Yea-a-ah? Well, I’ll be ——! See if yuh can get holt of her, Scotty.”

The sheriff left Hashknife with Taylor, while he found Marion. The old man had little to say to Hashknife, and the conversation dragged heavily until the sheriff brought her in and introduced her to Hashknife.

“Did Tex offer to help us out?” asked Taylor.

Marion nodded quickly.

“He did; and I refused his offer. And he knows why I refused it, Dad.”

“Gosh a’mighty—why?”

“I can’t tell you now.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I jist wanted to know if he did. Mr. Hartley and his pardner offer to help yuh run the ranch at least until the round-up starts, and it shore looks generous—comin’ from strangers.”

“It certainly is generous!” exclaimed Marion. “Dad, I think I can get Nanah to stay with me.”

“That’ll be fine. I’m much obliged to yuh, Hartley, and I’ll not be forgettin’ this favor. We’re shore up agin’ a hard deal. How soon can yuh go out to the ranch?”

“I broke a State record on saddlin’ a bronc once,” grinned Hashknife. “Our animals are in the livery-stable, and I know Sleepy is plumb willin’ to give up that bed at the hotel.”

“Then we’ll all ride out together,” said Marion. “My horse is there too.” Hashknife found Sleepy at Moon’s store and introduced him to Marion. Lee Barnhardt was there, and heard Hashknife explain to Sleepy that they were going to run the Double Bar 8. The lean-necked lawyer’s brows elevated momentarily, and he wondered why Tex Alden hadn’t handled that end of the deal.

Sleepy went with Marion to get the horses, while Hashknife secured paper and envelopes from Moon, and wrote a letter. Lee Barnhardt sat on a counter across the room, and wondered who this tall cowboy might be. Lee did not believe in philanthropy, and he wondered just why these two cowboys should offer to work the Double Bar 8 for nothing. He watched Hashknife, who hunched over the counter, taking much time over the composition of his letter.

Lee moved over to that counter and bought some tobacco he did not need. Hashknife sealed the letter and began directing the envelope. Lee walked slowly past him, getting a flash of the address on the letter, which was directed to Leesom & Brand, Attorneys at Law, Chicago.

If Lee Barnhardt expected to find any clue to Hashknife’s identity, he could hardly find it in the address of a letter, but he smiled queerly as he walked to his office and sat down, twiddling his thumbs.

But it was not a pleasant smile, and his head sunk into his collar until the wattles of his wry-neck protruded. For about ten minutes he sat thus, totally absorbed in his own thoughts, which were finally broken by the entrance of Tex Alden, who had been depleting the stock of the Oasis saloon until he fairly reeked with alcoholic fumes.

“What do you know about them two fellers goin’ out to the Taylor ranch?” he demanded of Barnhardt.

“Eh?” Lee looked up quickly. “Oh, yes. What about ’em?”

“That’s what I want to know, by ——!”

“You’re sore about something, ain’t you, Tex?”

“Yo’re —— right I am! Who authorized them two punchers to run that place?”