Part 8

“Yeah, I reckon so. But the roundup is over for this year.”

“Uh-huh. Well, mebbe that’s right. Seems to me that King ain’t makin’ a —— of an effort to break through.”

“Maybe he’s tryin’ to outstay us. He’s got pretty good feed up there. He shifted the line a little to the west, but not very much. It kinda looks like he wanted to swing west, but don’t want to do it too openly. I’d like to get my hands on him.”

“What would the cattlemen do to him, Hodges?”

“If they caught him? Well, I don’t know what they’d do. He’s been hated in this valley for so long that the cattlemen would probably declare a holiday and hang him higher than a kite.”

“Then it would be a continual fight, even if he did get a foothold in here, eh?”

“You bet. There’d be plenty of killin’ as long as a sheep remained, Hartley.”

They went out of the restaurant and down to the Totem Saloon. It was a little too early in the morning for much activity. None of them wanted a drink, so they sat down at a card table to smoke and talk. Swampers were engaged in mopping up the floors, while the bartender polished glasses and put the bar in shape for the day’s work.

A swamper went out, carrying two big empty buckets. He stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and stared down the street. After several moments he turned and came back into the saloon.

“The sheriff must ’a’ caught somebody,” he announced. “They’re takin’ several people into the office.”

Hashknife, Sleepy and Hodges hurried to the doorway. There were several saddled horses in front of the office, and Gene Hill was talking with Sunshine.

“Better go down and have a look,” suggested Hashknife, and they moved across the street, heading for the office.

Hill saw them coming and spoke to Sunshine, who moved back to the open door. Micky Hart came into the doorway behind him, and the three of them watched the three men coming down the sidewalk.

“That’s about close enough,” warned Hill nervously.

“Close enough for what?” asked Hashknife.

“Close enough for you to come, stranger.”

“What’s the idea, Gene?” queried Hodges.

“Well, you all stop right there and I’ll tell yuh. We caught Eph King at Jack Hartwell’s place.”

“You—you caught Eph King?”

Hodges could hardly believe this.

“Yo’re —— right we did. And we caught Jack Hartwell along with him, too. The sheriff is fittin’ ’em in cells right now.”

“Well, I’ll be ——ed!” exploded Hodges.

“That sure is good to hear.”

“They were headin’ for there when they passed us,” whispered Sleepy.

The rest of the cowboys came out with the sheriff, talking excitedly, but at sight of Hashknife and Sleepy they stopped talking. Several of them looked at the sheriff, as if expecting him to say something, but he remained silent.

“I hear yuh caught Eph King,” said Hashknife easily. “Do yuh mind lettin’ me talk to him for a minute?”

The sheriff laughed and looked around at the cowboys.

“He’s got about as much chance of that as he has of talkin’ to the King of England, ain’t he?”

“Less than that,” laughed Gene Hill.

“We might put him in, too,” suggested Micky Hart.

“Yeah?” Hashknife grinned widely at Micky. “Yuh might. But it wouldn’t be a healthy dose for the place, cowboy.”

“You don’t want to talk too much,” warned Hill. “You two hombres ain’t any too well balanced around here.”

“Oh, all right,” said Hashknife meekly. “We don’t want to get into trouble.”

“Haulin’ in yore horns, eh?” sneered Hill. “Well, I knew——”

Hashknife started toward Hill, looking him square in the eyes. It was a bold move; a foolish move, under the circumstances. But it got results. Hill started to retreat, not realizing that he was on the edge of a two-foot-high sidewalk. His first backward step dropped his foot off the edge and he sprawled on his back in the hard street. It was such a shock that he made no attempt to get up for several moments.

Hodges laughed outright and the tension was relaxed. Even the sheriff grinned.

“And that ends the mornin’ performance,” said Hashknife. “It’s a good trick—when it works.”

He turned his back on the crowd and walked back toward the Totem Saloon. After a moment’s scrutiny of the crowd, Sleepy turned and followed him, while Gene Hill got to his feet and swore with what little breath he had left.

Hashknife and Sleepy went to the Totem Saloon hitch rack, where they had left their horses, mounted and rode out of town toward the west. The crowd in front of the sheriff’s office watched them and wondered where they were going. But none of them cared to follow. Anyway, they had captured Eph King, and that was quite enough for one day.

* * * * *

They adjourned to the Totem Saloon, where they proceeded to regale themselves with whisky and recite their own deeds of valor. Slim De Larimore rode in after ammunition and found Hork, the storekeeper, swearing a streak.

“Ammunition, ——!” he roared. “I got enough shells on that train last night to supply an army, and some dirty coyote broke into my place last night and stole the whole works! Holy gosh, they not only took the new shipment, but they took everythin’ else!”

“And that leaves us in a fine fix,” declared Slim angrily. “I’m almost out of shells, I tell yuh.”

“Well, ——, I never stole my own ammunition!” wailed Hork.

Slim whirled and walked out of the place, while Hork called down curses upon the heads of those who had robbed him. He was a thrifty soul, was Hork, and it was the monetary loss, not the plight of the cattlemen which caused him to grieve so deeply.

Slim’s thin face expressed deep disgust as he started across the street and met Micky Hart. Slim had eyes of a peculiar greenish cast, and when he grew angry they seemed to intensify in color. For Slim was not of the jovial type, and when Micky related the good news of Eph King’s capture he did not enthuse greatly.

“We’ve got him,” declared Micky, after relating the details. “He was with Jack Hartwell, so we hung ropes on Jack and brought him in, too. I reckon we’ve done pretty well, eh?”

“Why didn’t yuh bring his wife?” asked Slim.

“Aw, ——, yuh can’t do that to a woman, Slim. What the ——? We can find her any old time, and she can’t do no harm now.”

Micky bow-legged his way on across the street. Slim studied the situation for a while, turned away from the saloon entrance, went back to the hitch rack and mounted his horse. For several moments he sat there, deep in thought.

Finally he swung his horse around and rode down to the sheriff’s office, where he dismounted. The sheriff met him at the door.

“Heard the news, have yuh, Slim?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Didja hear about the shootin’ at Jack Hartwell’s place?”

“No. What was that about?”

The sheriff invited him into the office, where he showed him the two bodies. Slim looked them over closely, while the sheriff told him the story as told to him by Hashknife. Slim listened closely to the narrative, but made no comment, except to ask where these two strange cowboys were now.

“Rode out of here a little while ago, Slim. Dunno where they’re goin’. By golly, I don’t _sabe_ ’em. They don’t scare worth a ——, either.”

“Uh-huh,” reflected Slim. “Somebody stole that shipment of cartridges that came in last night. Hork’s yellin’ his head off over ’em.”

“Broke into his place? Who in —— would do that, Slim?”

“That’s the question, Sudden—who would?”

“The sheepmen couldn’t, could they?”

“Not very likely.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff grew thoughtful. Then an idea seemed to strike him.

“Slim, I’ll betcha it was Hartley and Stevens. I tell yuh, they’re here for no good. Yessir, that’s some of their work. What time did them shells arrive?”

“On the train last night, I suppose.”

“Hm-m-m! By grab, I’ll bet they got ’em. Next time I get a chance I’m goin’ to shove them into jail, I tell yuh. They’ve caused me all the worry they’re goin’ to. Want to see King?”

“Aw, to —— with him.”

“Didn’t know but what you’d like to laugh at him, Slim.”

“Naw. I’ve got to be gettin’ back. These crazy punchers chasin’ all over the country, drinkin’ liquor and capturin’ people kinda busts a lot of holes in the dead-line. Next thing we know, we’ll have sheep all over the street down here.”

Slim went out, swung into his saddle and rode out of town, heading north.

* * * * *

Eight armed men were eating a belated lunch at the sheep camp when Hashknife and Sleepy rode their jaded horses up to the huddle of tents and dismounted. They had circled far to the west, beyond the guarded dead-line, to get past the cattlemen.

Under the circumstances it was a foolhardy thing to do; to ride into that sheep camp. A number of saddle horses were tied to the wagons, giving it the appearance of a cattle camp. The sheepmen ceased eating and received them with Winchesters in their hands; a hard-bitten lot of men, who handled their rifles with familiarity.

Steen, the foreman, was there, and met them as they dismounted. He and Hashknife looked keenly at each other for several moments.

“I’ll betcha,” said Hashknife slowly, “I’ll betcha, if yuh had that bunch of hair off yore face, I’d call yuh Bill Steen.”

“Hartley! You old, long-legged galliwimpus!”

Bill Steen almost threw himself at Hashknife, reaching out with both hands. They mauled each other with rough delight, while the sheepmen grinned and stacked their rifles.

“Well, dern yore old soul!” exploded Steen. “Long time I no see yuh, Hashknife.”

“Plenty long,” grinned Hashknife. “Yo’re the last person I ever expected to see up here. Bill, when in —— did you turn to sheep?”

“About five years ago. Oh, I’m an old sheepherder now, Hashknife. It pays me better than the cows did. Well, how in —— are yuh?”

“No better than ever, Bill. This here excess baggage of mine is named Sleepy Stevens. Sleepy, you’ve heard me tell of Bill Steen.”

Sleepy shook hands with him gravely.

“Yeah, I’ve heard yuh tell about him. You and him stole cows together, didn’t yuh?”

“Yeah, we sure did,” laughed Steen.

“But what in —— brought you two fellers up here, I’d like to know? Lookin’ for jobs? If yuh are, you’ve sure got ’em.”

“Yo’re just as comical as ever,” declared Hashknife. “We’re cowpunchers, you old blat-listener. Listen, Bill: We came up to tell yuh that yore boss is in jail at Totem City.”

“Eph King? In jail?”

Hashknife explained in detail, while the sheepmen crowded near to find out how it had happened.

“That’s sure a —— of a note,” said Steen seriously. “I was afraid somethin’ had happened to him, so I sent a man down there an hour ago to see if he could find out somethin’. This here sure is serious news, Hashknife. My ——, they’ll hang Eph King.”

“I’m kinda afraid they will, Bill. And they’ll hang Jack Hartwell along with him.”

“Why would they hang Jack Hartwell?”

“’Cause they think he is a spy for Eph King.”

“Oh, the —— fools! Jack Hartwell’s no spy for us.”

“He’ll have to prove it, Bill.”

“What’ll we do, Bill?” asked one of the men anxiously.

“What became of Mac?” asked another.

“Mac got killed,” said Hashknife. “A man named Boomer Bates shot and killed Mac. Bates is dead, too.”

“Well, for the love of ——!” exploded a sheepman. “What did Boomer Bates shoot MacLeod for?”

“Mistook him for somebody else, I reckon. Were they friends?”

“Well, mebbe they wasn’t friends, but they wasn’t enemies. Mac didn’t even know Bates, I don’t think.”

“And what in —— is Bates doin’ over in this country?” wondered Bill Steen.

No one seemed to know just why Bates might be in Lo Lo Valley.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t _sabe_,” observed Steen, “and one of ’em is this: Why did you fellers ride plumb up here to tell us that Eph King is in jail?”

Hashknife grinned and began rolling a cigaret.

“Bill,” he said slowly, “I didn’t know you were here. I’m not a —— bit in sympathy with the sheep, but I thought it might be worth my while to come up and tell you what had happened.”

“Just how would it be worth yore while, Hashknife?”

“C’mere.”

Hashknife led him out of earshot, where they squatted on their heels and blew Bull Durham smoke in each other’s faces.

“Go ahead,” grunted Steen.

“Bill—” Hashknife was very serious—“why did the sheep stop where they are?”

“Why?” Steen grinned. “Dead-line.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s fine. And what else?”

“Nothin’ else, Hashknife.”

“I see,” Hashknife nodded and rubbed his long nose. “Bill, what kind of a jigger is Eph King?”

“Hashknife, he’s one of the best yuh ever knew. Oh, I know he’s a sheepman, and all that. He’s got a bad name.” Steen shifted his position and inhaled deeply. “If King was the tough —— they’ve called him, we’d have sheep below Totem City by this time. But he don’t want a lot of killin’. He’s waitin’—well, I dunno.”

“Waitin’ for what, Bill?” queried Hashknife smiling.

“Well, he—he——” Steen faltered. “He thought it would be the best thing to do, Hashknife.”

“All right, Bill. I reckon we’ll be goin’ along.”

“Goin’ back to Totem City?” asked Steen, as they mounted.

“Eventually,” said Hashknife. “Got any word yuh want sent to King?”

Steen smiled grimly, but shook his head.

“Come and see me ag’in, both of yuh,” he said. “There’s always grub and a blanket waitin’ for yuh.”

“Thank yuh, Bill. Adios.”

* * * * *

They rode due east from the sheep camp, staying well above the dead-line. Their horses were fagged from the long ride up the slopes; so they took things easy now. Sleepy did not question Hashknife, but wondered at the reason for the wide swing of the country. It was almost sundown when they came down Deer Creek and swung west again to pass the Turkey Track ranch.

There was no sign of life about the ranch, and they did not stop. A smoke was lazily drifting from the kitchen stovepipe, but that was the only evidence of recent occupation. They came back on to the old road, leading toward Jack Hartwell’s place. Hashknife studied it closely and finally drew rein.

A coyote trotted out of a thick clump of brush below the road, looked them over for a moment and disappeared like a puff of gray-blue smoke. Hashknife reined his horse around and rode down to where the coyote had come out of the brush.

An offensive odor assailed their nostrils, coming, it seemed, from the tangle of brush. Hashknife dismounted and led his horse in through a natural trail to where he discovered the body of a horse, partly eaten by coyotes. Sleepy followed him in, and together they examined the animal. There was a brand mark on its right shoulder, which showed a well marked JN.

“That’s the horse you downed that night,” said Hashknife. “It’s a wonder to me that they didn’t cut out that brand.”

They went out of the brush, mounted and rode on toward Jack Hartwell’s place, keeping a close watch on all sides. They knew this to be hostile territory, and did not care to run into trouble. Their horses were too tired to show much speed, and the two riders were red eyed from lack of sleep.

They rode in at Jack Hartwell’s place and dismounted. The front door was open, but there was no one in sight.

“Looks kinda queer around here,” said Hashknife, as he looked in through the doorway.

There was an upset table in the center of the room, a smashed vase and a litter of odds and ends on the carpet. A rocking-chair, with one arm broken off, leaned drunkenly against the wall, and a window on the east side of the room, looked as if some one had shoved an elbow through the pane.

“Holy gee!” whistled Sleepy, as they surveyed the wreckage. “They must pulled off a wrestlin’ match, when they arrested King and Jack.”

“It sure looks like it,” agreed Hashknife, as he crossed the room and peered into the kitchen.

“C’mere!” he called to Sleepy. “Somebody got snagged.”

There was a well-defined trail of blood across the kitchen floor, leading out of the back door. They went outside and picked up the trail again. It led them straight to the corral, where they found a man, lying face down, almost against the fence.

He had been shot through the left side, below the heart, but he was still alive. They carried him carefully to the house, where Hashknife cut away his shirt and examined the wound, which had stopped bleeding externally. He was not a man that either of them had ever seen before.

“I’ll betcha this is the man that Bill Steen sent down here to find Eph King,” said Hashknife. “Now, what do yuh reckon he ran into down here?”

Sleepy got some water and they washed the wounded man’s face. It was all they could do for him. They forced a few drops between his teeth and after a few minutes he opened his eyes, looking dazedly up at them.

“All right, pardner,” said Hashknife. “Just take it easy and see if yuh can talk.”

The man frowned, as if trying to remember. Hashknife gave him another drink, which he took greedily, although he was almost too weak to swallow it.

“Do yuh remember what happened?” asked Sleepy.

The man shut his eyes, and they thought he had fainted, but he opened them again. He tried to take a deep breath, but choked with the pain. Then he made the supreme effort and whispered—

“Ed—shot—me.”

It was a very faint whisper, in which he added—“He—took—the—woman.”

For a moment he tried to say more, but the words would not come. Then he seemed to relax instantly and his eyes closed. Hashknife got slowly to his feet and looked around.

“So Ed got the woman, eh?” he muttered. “Now, who in —— is Ed?”

“I wish we had some whisky,” mourned Sleepy.

“What for?”

“To give him a shot. Strong liquor—”

“Wouldn’t do him any good, Sleepy; he’s dead.”

“Well,” said Sleepy vacantly, “I—the poor son-of-a-gun. What’ll we do with him?”

“Nothin’, Sleepy. We can’t keep on carryin’ dead men to town. I’m tired of bein’ a travelin’ morgue, so I reckon we’ll shut the door and leave him here for a while. It kinda looks like somebody by the name of Ed came along and took Hartwell’s wife.”

“My gosh, do yuh reckon he done that, Hashknife?”

“Yuh can’t dispute a dead man, can yuh? We’ve got to find this here Ed person and get an explanation. C’mon.”

They fastened the door, mounted their horses and rode on toward Totem City. It was growing dark now.

“If I ever get my sylph-like form between sheets, I’ll never get up,” declared Sleepy. “I’m plumb bug-eyed, I tell yuh. Night don’t mean nothin’ to me, except darkness. That Hartwell place is a hoodoo, I tell yuh. Every time we show up there we run into death. Well, why don’tcha say somethin’, Hashknife? Do a little talkin’, can’tcha?”

“Talk about what?”

“Anythin’, dang it. I’ve got to talk, hear talkin’ or go to sleep on this frazzle-legged bronc. If I fall off, don’tcha dare to pick me up. Just figure that I’m dead and lemme lay, cowboy. Why don’tcha sing? My ——, you’d sing at any other time.”

“Cows!” exclaimed Hashknife, jerking up his horse.

The road ahead of them was full of cows, the slope below them was a moving mass of cows, and more cows were coming down a cañon and crossing the road. Hashknife dismounted and Sleepy followed suit. It was impossible to estimate the number of cattle that crossed the road ahead of them.

And behind them came riders, not visible against the darkness of the landscape, but audible. One of them snapped a bull whip, like the report of a small pistol. Then they drifted away in the night, leaving only the odor of dust and cattle. They were traveling in a southeasterly direction, as near as the two cowboys could judge.

“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy as they got wearily back on their horses and went ahead. “Reckon it was within the law?”

“It didn’t look like it, Sleepy, but my bronc is too tired to run away from trouble, and I’m too sleepy to shoot my way out of it. Anyway, I’m kinda losin’ my affection for these Lo Lo cattlemen.”

They stabled their horses at Totem City and went to a restaurant. Sudden Smithy was there with Sunshine. Sudden nodded curtly, and his face showed little enthusiasm when Hashknife and Sleepy sat down at his table.

Sunshine merely grunted and kept up a steady attack on his plate of food. Hashknife and Sleepy had noticed that there were quite a number of horses at the hitch racks: Evidence that all of the cowpunchers were not out at the dead-line. Sudden seemed slightly nervous and often squinted toward the front windows.

The waiter was just placing their food on the table, when in came Matthew Hale, the prosecuting attorney. He came straight to the sheriff, paying no attention to the other three men.

“Well?” said the sheriff coldly.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Hale. “Several of the men are over in Hork’s place, and it’s beginning to look dangerous. You know as well as I do that you can’t keep King and Hartwell in jail without a specific charge against them. As far as I know there is nothing against them. They were not arrested by the law; merely kidnaped.”

“All right,” grunted Sudden angrily. “I suppose yuh want me to turn ’em loose, eh?”

“I merely want you to comply with the law, Sheriff. It seems to me, that with all this shooting going on, and dead men, whose deaths have not been investigated, there should be something for the sheriff’s office to do beside keeping men in jail, against whom there have been no charges made, who have never even been arrested.”

Sleepy innocently clapped his hands by way of applause.

It angered Sudden. He whirled on Sleepy, who met his glare with an expression of angelic innocence.

“Ain’t he the talker?” queried Sleepy. “Silv’ry tongued, and all that. No wonder they sends lawyers to Congress.”

It was all said with such sincerity that Sudden turned and looked at Hale, as if wondering just what Hale had said.

“—— fool!” grunted Sunshine, his mouth filled with food.

“Mebbe,” said Sleepy, “but he don’t talk like one.”

“I meant you,” growled Sunshine.

“Check the bet,” laughed Sleepy.

Hale was looking closely at Hashknife, and now he said to Sudden:

“These are the two men who—uh—went away from the inquest, are they not?”

“Yeah, —— ’em!” growled Sudden. “They’re always around where they ain’t wanted.”

“If I remember correctly you made a specific charge against them at—”

“Now, just hang on to yoreself,” advised Hashknife. “We’ve been charged just about all we’re goin’ to be. You bunch of narrow-headed Lo Lo-ites are up against enough real grief, without tryin’ to fasten somethin’ on to me and Sleepy Stevens.

Yo’re asleep, that’s what you are. My ——, I dunno how you’ve prospered at all.”

He turned on the sheriff.

“Who’s Ed?”

“Ed who?”

“Just Ed. There must be somebody around here named Ed.”

“Well, let’s see.”

Sudden frowned thoughtfully. He knew almost every man in Lo Lo Valley by his first name. Sunshine had lived there for years, as had Matthew Hale, but none of them was able to give Hashknife the slightest assistance.

“That is rather peculiar,” said Hale thoughtfully. “In all the valley, I do not know one man by that name. There was old Ed Barber, of course.”

“But he’s dead,” said Sudden. “Nossir, I don’t know of one man by that name. What’s the idea, Hartley?”

“I’ve got to find Ed—who ever he is, Sudden—because he’s the man who killed another man at Jack Hartwell’s place today, and took Mrs. Jack Hartwell along with him.”

“What in —— are you talkin’ about?” exploded the sheriff, getting to his feet.”

“Took Mrs. Hartwell and ——”

“Set down,” advised Hashknife. “Don’t get excited. She’s gone, thassall. The house looks like a cyclone had swept through it, and there’s a dead man propped up on the sofy. Ed shot him, so he said, before he died. And he lived long enough to say that Ed took the woman. The woman must have been Mrs. Hartwell.”

“For ——’s sake!” gasped Hale. “What is this country coming to, anyway? When they steal women——”

“Who was the dead man?” asked Sudden.

“I don’t know,” Hashknife shook his head. “He was one of King’s men, who was sent from the sheep camp to find out why King didn’t come back. Mebbe he tried to protect the woman and got killed.”

Yeah?” Sudden got to his feet, his jaw set tightly. “How in —— do you know all this, Hartley?”