Part 5
“It was doggone slow goin’, I’ll tell yuh. I hunted in the dark for a shallow crossin’ of the river, and wasted a lot of time thataway, finally havin’ to swim across. Well, I finally got to the sidin’, but don’t see my horses.
“Just about that time I hears a lot of shootin’ goin’ on down by the old river crossin’. I rode down there, but finds that the shootin’ is gettin’ farther away all the time. Then I waited until daylight and came in over the old road. About a mile from here I finds my roan horse lyin’ right in the middle of the road, too dead to skin. I took the saddle—and that’s all I know.”
“Well, that’s quite a lot, Sudden,” observed Marsh.
“Yeah, it’s quite a lot, but not enough. Jack must know somethin’ about it, but he won’t talk.”
“Why should I talk?” asked Jack coldly. “I never fired any of the shots, and I don’t know who killed your horse.”
The sheriff sighed and hooked his thumbs over his belt. He was plainly exasperated, so exasperated that he forgot caution.
“His wife answered my knock at the door,” he said, indicating Jack, “and her head is all tied up in bandages. She looks like she’d been run through a threshing machine.”
“You leave my wife out of this, Sudden!” snapped Jack. “She had nothin’ to do with it. If you want to find out anythin’, you better find them two strange cowpunchers.”
“Yeah, and I’ll do that too!” snorted Sudden. “They’ll talk, or I’ll know why.”
“You better take their word for it,” grinned Jack.
“Is that so?”
“Very likely.”
“You know ’em, do yuh?”
“Ask Casey Steil about Hashknife Hartley.”
“That’s the tall one,” said the sheriff quickly. “Casey knows him, does he?”
“I think he does.”
“Well—” the sheriff picked up his saddle and turned to the pinto—“I reckon all I can do is to go back and wait for ’em to show up and talk about it.”
He mounted his pinto, carrying the saddle in his arms, and headed for Totem City, while Jack and his father faced each other, both waiting for the other to begin.
“What did you want here?” asked Jack after a long silence.
“I heard about the shooting and I was afraid——”
“That somebody had come gunnin’ for the spy?” Jack laughed harshly. “Don’t mind me. I can take care of myself.”
“Ed Barber died this mornin’.”
“Aw, that’s too bad. He was hurt worse than we thought.”
“I forgot to tell the sheriff.”
“He’s got enough grief right now, I reckon.”
“We’ve all got plenty of that, Jack. Did you see Eph King last night?”
“Yeah.”
Jack was not trying to deny it.
“You rode over Gene Hill, didn’t yuh, Jack?”
“Yeah, I sure did. He tried to stop me.”
“They all know that you went over to the sheep last night.”
“And then what?”
“Jack, don’t you realize what that means? Good ——, they’ll hold you responsible for old Ed Barber’s death and for the sheep comin’ into Lo Lo Valley. Have you lost yore mind entirely?”
“Mebbe I’ve lost my mind, but not my nerve.”
“Nerve won’t help yuh. Don’t be reckless, boy. There is yet time to get away. I’ll stake yuh. Peel out of here while the sheep are keepin’ everybody busy. Take yore wife and head east until things are blown over. Won’t yuh do that, Jack?”
“And admit that I was a traitor? ——!” Jack laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Not by a —— sight. Any old time I start runnin’, it will be after somebody.”
Marsh Hartwell turned to his horse and started to mount, but changed his mind and came close to Jack.
“Jack, I’m goin’ to ask yuh a question that’ll make yuh mad, but I’ve got to do it. Did yore wife have anythin’ ——”
“Leave her out of this, Dad,” interrupted Jack, but his eyes did not hold steady.
“All right, Jack.”
Marsh Hartwell mounted and rode away. In his heart was the sudden conviction that Molly, not Jack, was the traitor.
“But is she a traitor?” he asked himself. “We’ve treated her all wrong, and Eph King is her father. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. And Jack is just reckless enough to die rather than let any one know that she is to blame.”
Jack walked back to the doorway. Molly had just opened the door and was watching Marsh Hartwell ride away. Her head was swathed in bandages, and there was little color in her face.
“What did your father want?” she asked.
“Well, he thought we ought to run away, Molly.”
“Run away?”
Jack had not told her of the suspicions against him, nor did she know that he had seen her father.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “They think that I was the one that sent the information to your father. They’ve thrown me out, brandin’ me a traitor. And I’ll be kinda lucky if they don’t come down here in a bunch and hang me.”
“Jack, they don’t think that!”
“Well, I wish you were right. While you was tryin’ to run away from me last night, they were puttin’ the sheep dip on to me. It was a big night in my life, I’ll tell yuh. They think I did all this because Dad treated me the way he has. And last night I smashed my way through the dead-line, Molly. I thought you had gone to your father. And the cattlemen seen me go through.”
Molly stared at him, trying to understand what he had done.
“You went to see my father?”
“Yeah, and I seen him, too.”
“Did you? Oh, what did he say, Jack?”
“Well,” Jack smiled grimly, “he said that if there was any kings around, I could easy get a job as a fool.”
* * * * *
It was still fairly early in the morning when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Totem City. They put both horses into the sheriff’s stable and went back to the street, where Hashknife had seen a little harness and saddlery store. Here they were able to purchase belts and holsters. Luckily they were able to pick up some second-hand ones, which would fit their needs, and then they went to the general merchandise store to get a supply of cartridges.
Jim Hork, the proprietor, listened to their wants, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as he looked at his stock of cartridges.
“Mebbe I can let yuh have a box apiece,” he said. “I’m runnin’ low, and I’ve got a whole slue of orders.”
“That’s enough,” grinned Hashknife. “We ain’t goin’ to shoot more than fifty men apiece.”
Hork grinned and sold them the cartridges. They filled their belts and guns, and he watched them curiously, but Hork was a life-long resident of the cattleland, and did not ask questions. It was not often that strangers came to Totem City and bought revolver cartridges.
But Hashknife and Sleepy did not enlighten him. They knew he was aching for them to talk about themselves, but they kept a discreet silence. A little, barefooted boy came in to buy some kerosene oil.
“Did they kill any sheepherders last night, Mister Hork?” he asked excitedly. “Ma wants to know, she said.”
“I dunno, Jimmy. Don’t reckon they did. You ain’t got no relations fightin’ for the sheep, have yuh?”
“Me?” shrilled Jimmy. “By jing, I ain’t! I hate ’em.”
Hork laughed and went into a back room to get the oil.
“It’s quite a battle, ain’t it, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, it ain’t—yet. Pa says she’ll be a humdinger. Which side are you on, mister?”
“I reckon I’m on my side, Jimmy.”
“Uh-huh.” Jimmy scratched the calf of his leg with the big toe of his other foot. “I’ll betcha they’ll make Jack Hartwell hard to catch.”
“Thasso? What did he do, Jimmy?”
“Jack Hartwell? Huh! Pa says he’s the son-of-a-gun that told the sheepmen all about when and how to git in here. He ort to be shot, y’betcha. He married a sheep-girl.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. That was quite a while ago. Nobody liked him since. And his pa is the biggest rancher in this valley, too. I know him and I know Mrs. Hartwell, too.”
“Jack Hartwell?”
“I don’t mean him; I mean his pa and ma.”
“You don’t like Jack Hartwell, Jimmy?”
“Well,” the youngster hesitated, “I did—once.”
“Who is yore pa, Jimmy?”
“Gee, don’tcha know my pa? He’s the sheriff. I thought that everybody knew my pa.”
“Here’s yore coal oil,” said Hork, coming in from the rear. “You tell yore ma she better get a bigger can. That one just holds an even gallon.”
“Ma knows it,” grinned Jimmy, holding it gingerly. “She measured it. If it ain’t plumb full when I get home, me or you are goin’ to catch thunder.”
Hork exploded with laughter while Jimmy went pattering out of the store, watching his step closely.
“Jimmy is a great lad,” observed Hork. “He sure sees the funny side of things. Was he tellin’ you about Jack Hartwell?”
“Yeah,” Hashknife inhaled deeply on his cigaret. “Jack Hartwell is in kinda bad around here, ain’t he?”
“Well, it’s too bad,” admitted Hork. “Still, I reckon I ain’t in no position to talk about it a-tall. If he done what they say he did, he ought to get hung. But if he didn’t, he hadn’t.”
“Well, that’s justice,” said Hashknife seriously. “I hope he knows how yuh feel about it.”
“I try to be fair about things.”
“Well, that’s right, I suppose. Sleepy, let’s me and you go and wrap our insides around some ham and eggs. It seems like years and years since I ate anythin’.”
They walked out and crossed the street to the restaurant, where they had eaten the night before. They ordered a big meal and did full justice to it.
“Now, we’ve got to face the sheriff,” said Hashknife, loosening his belt. “I suppose he’ll rise up and tear his hair when he finds that his roan horse is a casualty.”
“I s’pose,” agreed Sleepy dismally. “He’ll tell us that the roan was worth five hundred dollars and that it could run faster than anythin’ on four legs.”
“Sure. If he don’t tell us that, he’ll swear that it was a family heirloom. It was, all right. The fastest move it made was when it started fallin’. Oh, well, human nature is queer.”
They paid for their meal and walked outside. The sheriff had just ridden in and was talking to old Sam Hodges, of the Bar 77, in front of Hork’s store. The sheriff still had the saddle in his arms.
“There’s our first difficulty, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “We’ll go right over and have it out with him.”
The sheriff scowled at them, as they came across the street.
“Hyah, sheriff,” grinned Hashknife. “You must be anticipatin’ somethin’ to be packin’ an extra saddle with yuh thataway.”
“Yeah?” The sheriff was not to be mollified. “Mebbe you fellers don’t know where I got this saddle, eh? I got it off my roan horse.”
“Oh, is that so? By golly, you got out there quick.”
“Mebbe I did. And then what?”
Hashknife grinned widely and began rolling a cigaret.
“Before we go too far,” he said slowly, “would yuh mind tellin’ me how many hundreds that roan bronc was worth?”
“Not a —— hundred! Fact of the matter is, he wasn’t worth six bits. But that don’t tell me nothin’.”
Hashknife and Sleepy gawped at each other. It was unusual. In fact it had never happened to them before. Old Sam Hodges grinned. The sheriff had just told him enough to whet his interest in the matter. He instinctively liked the looks of these two cowpunchers, and old Sam was a pretty good judge of human nature.
“Somebody,” said Hashknife mysteriously, “shot that horse.”
“——, that wasn’t hard to see!” snorted the sheriff.
“When I was on him, goin’ as fast as he could go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. We went to Turkey Track sidin’, like we said we would, but the train was gone. We started back, like we intended to do, if the train wasn’t there. And when we crossed the river, some folks started throwin’ lead at us. By golly, they sure did heave the old shrapnel at us.
“They chased us all the way to that little ranch on the creek, where we busted into the house and the six-gun parade turned around and went away. About a mile from the ranch, one or two of them bullets hived up in the roan, and we had to do the last mile on one horse. Now, I dunno how you folks do things around here, but I think it’s a —— of a way to treat strangers.”
The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and turned to look at old Sam, who was masticating rapidly and trying to figure out what it all meant. Then he spat explosively.
“But who in —— was the shooters?”
“They never said,” replied Hashknife blandly. “Mebbe they thought it wouldn’t make any difference with us. But I’d rather be shot by somebody I know than by a total stranger. It ain’t etiquette.”
“It’s sure beyond me.” The sheriff shook his head. “Just why somebody desires yore death is more than I can figure out. Do you fellers know anybody around here?”
“Reckon not,” grinned Hashknife. “We never were here before.”
“And we ain’t comin’ ag’in,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t mind havin’ one or two men shootin’ at me, but when they come in flocks—I’m through.”
“Well, they never scared the grins out of yuh,” observed old Sam Hodges.
“Might as well grin,” said Hashknife. “Outside of the sheriff’s roan horse, nobody got hurt; and we’ll pay for that.”
“Yuh will not,” declared the sheriff. “It wasn’t no fault of yours, Hartley. I’d give all my horses to know why yuh was shot at. Kinda looks to me like somebody mistook yuh for me and Sunshine.”
“Somebody that wants to wipe out the sheriff’s office?” asked old Sam quickly. “Sudden, I’ll betcha that was it. Find yore enemy and you’ll find the men that killed the roan.”
“The theory is fine,” agreed Hashknife. “But there’s one big flaw in it, gents. One horse was a roan and the other is a dark bay. At night nobody could identify ’em. And another thing; would they be lookin’ for you and Sunshine to come out there last night?”
“And that,” said old Sam, “picks a big hole in the idea.”
“Yeah, it does,” agreed the sheriff. “I’m goin’ to put this horse in the stable and get me some breakfast. You fellers had breakfast?”
“Just exactly,” replied Sleepy.
“Well, I’ll see yuh later.”
The sheriff turned his horse and started to ride away, but drew rein. A cowboy was riding toward them, coming in from the north. He swung off his horse and nodded to Hodges.
“I wonder if Hork has got any ammunition,” he said.
“I ain’t been in there,” said Hodges, “but I don’t reckon he’s had time to get any yet.”
“Uh-huh.”
The cowboy glanced at the sheriff and nodded. Then he looked at Hashknife and Sleepy. For a moment he squinted, and a peculiar expression flashed across his face. He turned awkwardly and struck his shin against the wooden sidewalk, swore softly and went into the store.
Hashknife pursed his lips and began rolling a cigaret. The sheriff had seen Casey Steil’s face, which told him that Casey had recognized these two men. Hashknife glanced up and found the sheriff looking closely at him.
“You know Casey Steil?” he asked.
“Casey Steil?” Hashknife frowned. “Where does he live?”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff turned his horse and rode away. Hashknife looked inquiringly at Sleepy, who grinned widely.
“Lives at Uh-huh, Hashknife. Didja ever hear of that town?”
“That was Casey Steil who just went into the store,” offered old Sam Hodges.
“Thasso?” Hashknife squinted toward the closed door. “What made the sheriff think I knowed that jigger?”
Old Sam did not say. He felt that it was none of his affair.
“Casey Steil worked for Slim De Larimore,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
Hashknife did not seem greatly interested in Casey Steil. He turned to Sleepy.
“Gimme yore Durham, cowboy. I scraped my pocket for that last smoke, and this coat of mine is all wool.”
“Go and buy yoreself some tobacco, why don’tcha?” complained Sleepy. “They sell it in that store.”
“All right, yuh doggoned miser.”
Hashknife stepped up on the sidewalk and went into the store. After a moment Sleepy followed him, with old Sam limping along behind.
* * * * *
Casey Steil was at the counter, talking with Hork, who had taken several boxes of cartridges off the shelf for his inspection. Steil glanced quickly at Hashknife and busied himself reading the labels on the boxes.
Hork sold Hashknife some tobacco, and when he turned back to Steil, the Turkey Track cowpuncher had walked away and was heading for the door. Hork grunted peevishly and put the boxes of cartridges back on the shelf.
Old Sam Hodges had been watching Steil, and he knew that Steil had walked away to prevent Hashknife from speaking to him. But Hashknife merely glanced toward Steil’s disappearing back and began rolling a cigaret.
“Wanted shells kinda bad,” observed Hork sarcastically. “Acted like he was half asleep. Didn’t even seem to know what sizes he wanted. And then—” Hork threw the last box back on a shelf—“he went out without any.”
“That’s what is called lapse of memory,” said Hodges.
Hashknife glanced quickly at the old man, and they both grinned. Hodges crossed the room to Hashknife and held out his hand.
“My name is Hodges—Sam Hodges of the Bar 77.”
“Mine’s Hartley—Hashknife Hartley of anywhere,” grinned the lanky cowboy as they shook hands. “Sam Hodges, meet Sleepy Stevens. He belongs to the same outfit that I do.”
“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Sleepy, holding out his hand.
They shook hands gravely, and the three of them walked out of the store together. Casey Steil had mounted his horse and was riding out of town.
“My place is almost due east from here,” said Hodges as they stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. “Anybody can direct yuh. We’d like to have yuh come out, gents. The Bar 77 ain’t no millionaire place, but we eat three times per day, and there’s always plenty of room at the table.”
“That’s sure nice of yuh,” smiled Hashknife. “We’ll likely be around here a few days.”
“Fine. Come out any old time.”
The old man got into his buckboard and rattled out of town.
“Salt of the earth,” declared Hashknife. “I’ll betcha he’s as square as they make ’em.”
“I won’t bet,” declared Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m more interested in Casey Steil. He sure ignored us, didn’t he? Hashknife, that mean-faced jigger almost swallowed his teeth. He was so darned scared you’d talk to him that he barked his shins on the sidewalk. How come that yuh didn’t speak to him?”
“That was up to him, Sleepy. Me and you know what Lee Steil used to be, but we’ve got to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he’s workin’ here and goin’ straight—good for him. He don’t need to be scared of us.”
“I’ll betcha he wishes he knew that,” laughed Sleepy.
They walked down to the sheriff’s office, where they found Sunshine, stretched out on a cot. He recognized them, but was in no mood to enthuse over anything.
“I reckon I was pie-eyed last night,” he told them sadly. “My mouth tastes like the bottom of a parrot’s cage today, so I know danged well that I had a cargo aboard. What’s new? I heard Sudden swearin’ around, but he didn’t think me worth while talkin’ to, I guess.”
“Nothin’ much new, Sunshine,” said Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Ahem-m-m-m! Any news from the battle front, I wonder?”
“Not much. Somebody tried to play rough with us last night, but only killed one of the sheriff’s horses.”
“Eh?” Sunshine sat up quickly. “Which one?”
“A roan.”
“Oh, that old jug-head! I’ve been tellin’ Sudden that the old roan was dead, but wouldn’t lay down. What was it all about?”
Hashknife described how the sheriff had loaned them the two horses to ride after the train, and of what happened later. Sunshine gawped widely at the recital. He was still a trifle hazy from his potations, but most of it percolated through his brain.
“Well, that’s what I call a —— of a note!” he declared. “Mistook yuh for sheepherders, eh?”
“Very likely,” dryly.
“Still—” Sunshine scratched his touseled head—“they hadn’t ought to do that either. You was horseback, wasn’t yuh? Uh-huh. And it was dark, too. Come to think of it, it looks danged queer. How did they act?”
“Awful.”
“Oh yeah. Sudden know about it?”
“About all there is to know, Sunshine.”
Sunshine thought it over for a while, or tried to. Then he reached for his boots and drew them on.
“Well, I dunno,” he said sadly. “I’m in no shape to work out puzzles. I git kinda giddy in the head.”
The conversation lapsed. Sunshine tried to smoke a cigaret, but threw it away in disgust. Finally the sheriff came back to the office and sat down to smoke his pipe. He was not bubbling over with conversation either, confining himself to cursing a pipe that is always stopped up.
Then came Doctor Owen, carefully removing his hat, mopping his brow and adjusting his glasses.
“Old Ed Barber died at six thirty-two this morning,” he stated.
The sheriff’s pipe rattled on the desk top.
“The —— he did!”
“Yes. I suppose we shall have to hold an inquest.”
“H-m-m. Yeah, I reckon we will. By grab! Poor old Ed’s dead, eh?”
The sheriff picked up the pipe and polished the bowl with the palm of his right hand.
“Old Ed was murdered,” he declared slowly. “Mebbe everythin’ is fair in war, I dunno. This is goin’ to stir things up badly. I swore to uphold the law, and I told ’em at the meetin’ that I’d do it, but by ——, I’m huntin’ for the men that shot old Ed. The law says that the sheep have the same right as cattle, but in a case like this, I reckon I’ll make a few laws of my own.”
“Don’t yell,” begged Sunshine, holding his head. “Sudden, you don’t know how loud yore voice is.”
“You stay sober!” exploded Sudden. “I’m goin’ to need yuh, doggone yore hide!”
“Oh, aw-w-w right!” Sunshine held his hands over his ears. “Jist don’t yowl at me. I’ve got a headache, I tell yuh.”
Sudden turned to the doctor,
“We’ll hold the inquest tonight at the Arrow, Doc. I reckon we can call in enough men for a jury.”
“Yes, I think we can, Sudden. Well, I will be going now.”
Sunshine sighed with relief when the doctor had gone.
“Too —— exact,” he said wearily. “Tellin’ us that old Ed died at exactly thirty-two minutes after six. I’ll betcha he held a watch on old Ed. What the —— was he tryin’ to do; find out if it was a world’s record? Aw-w-w, gosh! I taste like Paris green!”
“You look like it, too,” stated the sheriff. “You better go and rinse out yore system with strong coffee.”
“Oh, aw-w-w right.”
Sunshine groaned miserably and went in search of something bracing.
“What are you fellers goin’ to do?” asked the sheriff. “Are yuh goin’ to stay here a while, or are yuh pullin’ out?”
“Yuh don’t mind if we stay, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“No-o-o. I was just wonderin’, thassall. How long have yuh known Casey Steil?”
“What makes yuh think we know him?”
The sheriff scratched a match and lit his pipe, which did not draw at all well. He spat disgustedly and threw it on the desk.
“Tell us about this sheep trouble,” urged Hashknife. “We’ve heard enough of it to make us curious.”
“Yeah?” The sheriff grinned wisely. “Curiosity killed the cat, yuh know.”
“We’ll take a chance on the cats.”
“All right, they’re yore cats, Hartley. I don’t know neither of you two fellers. Mebbe yo’re connected with the sheepmen, for all I know, but the causes of this trouble ain’t secret. So I’ll tell yuh about ’em.”
* * * * *
The sheriff was not a story teller. At times he was forced to go back and bring in other threads, but at last he finished, and attacked his old pipe again, while Hashknife tilted back in his chair and squinted at the ceiling.
“So old Marsh Hartwell turned down his son because he married Eph King’s daughter, eh?”
“Well, Jack was an awful fool to bring her here, wasn’t he?”
“Accordin’ to yore liver and lights,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “On the other hand it was the natural thing to do. Did you folks ever think what a lot of —— it must’a been for that girl to have everybody dislikin’ her?”
“Well, I s’pose it wasn’t so awful nice, Hartley.”
“And folks kinda turned Jack down, too, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, yuh might say they did. But lookin’ at it——”
“From yore point of view? Say, sheriff, you folks have lived in this tight little valley until you’ve got so —— narrer that yuh could take a bath in a shotgun barrel. A lot of you folks can’t see higher than a cow’s vertebray. That’s a honest fact. I’m not tryin’ to start an argument.