Part 5

Neither Hank nor Bud Bell were in town. It might have complicated matters a little, as it was well known that there was bad blood between them and Allenby. The inquest was held about two o’clock in the afternoon, and at about three o’clock the stage from White Eagle, thirty miles away, came into town, with the driver, “Shorty” Elkins, sitting straight in the seat, hanging on with both hands, and with the lines twisted around one foot and held between his knees.

The team went past the stage station, caught the right front wheel into the post of a hitch-rack and jerked to a sudden stop; so sudden that Shorty pitched off over the wheel and fell against the sidewalk, where he stayed until some of the men picked him up.

They straightened him out on the sidewalk and some one poured a drink of whisky between his white lips.

“My gosh!” exploded Larry Neil, an Arrowhead cowboy, “somebody has sure riddled poor Shorty. Somebody get the doctor.”

Swan River Smith arrived, as did Allenby and Clayton. Another drink of whisky, forced between Shorty’s lips, seemed to revive him enough to open his eyes.

“How are yuh, Shorty?” asked Swan River. “Can yuh tell us what happened to yuh?”

Shorty’s eyes were filming, but he was conscious. He tried to lift his hand, but the effort was too much. Several times he twisted his lips, trying to speak. Then--

“June--Allenby----”

He managed to speak her name, spacing it widely.

“What about her, Shorty?” asked Swan River anxiously. “Try it again, son.”

“She--” He spoke the one word, tried to say more, but was unable to open his mouth again.

“Shorty’s dead,” said Swan River softly, getting to his feet.

Fred Hartwell, owner of the stage line, forced his way to the center and looked down at the dead man who had been his driver. Swan River told him all they knew about it, and they watched Hartwell as he examined the contents of the stage.

“The treasure box is gone,” he said. “We won’t know how much has been stolen until we check up with the office at White Eagle.”

The doctor arrived, and after a short examination shook his head, as he listened to a description of how the stage had arrived.

“I don’t see how he lived that long,” declared the doctor. “He must have fought hard against it.”

“But what did he mean about my daughter?” asked Allenby anxiously. “What could he have meant?”

“She wasn’t on the stage today, was she?” asked the sheriff.

“No. She was at home when I left there.” Allenby whirled and ran to his buckboard.

“Some of us better ride to the Half-Circle Cross,” said the sheriff quickly. “Shorty had that girl on his mind for some reason. Dang it, why didn’t he live longer!”

Swan River bowlegged his way swiftly toward his stable, with Forty Dollar right at his heels; while several of the cowboys mounted and waited for the sheriff to ride with them. But far ahead of them went the team of cream colored bronchos, running at top speed, while the lurching buckboard threatened at any time to capsize and throw Allenby and Clayton out into the sagebrush.

Hashknife and Sleepy were in the bunkhouse when the cavalcade arrived. The horsemen had almost overtaken the team, and when the two cowboys came outside the yard was filled with riders. Allenby fairly fell out of the buckboard and ran to Hashknife.

“Is June home?” he panted.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, she ain’t. About an hour after you left this mornin’, she had me saddle her horse, and she rode away. I don’t reckon she’s come back yet. What’s the matter?”

Allenby groaned aloud and turned to the sheriff.

“She went riding,” he said blankly.

“That’s all right,” said Swan River. “Which way did she go?

“Went east from here,” said Hashknife, pointing in that direction.

“Straight toward the White Eagle road,” said a cowboy softly.

“We’ll spread out and comb that country,” said the sheriff. “Maybe we can find her.”

Allenby ran toward the house, where Mrs. Allenby had come out on the porch, wondering at the crowd of riders, while the sheriff told Hashknife about Shorty Elkins.

“He tried to tell us about her,” said Swan River sadly. “Somethin’ has happened to her, that’s a cinch.”

“Shucks, this is a civilized country,” said Pete Sepulveda. “I dunno what could happen to a girl around here.”

“Two men have been murdered this week,” reminded Swan River grimly, and several of the men growled audibly.

Hashknife and Sleepy ran to the stable and saddled their horses, while others helped Allenby and Clayton saddle suitable mounts.

It was not over fifteen minutes later that they rode out of the ranch yard, spread out fan-wise and headed east. Hashknife and Sleepy were the last ones to see her; so they headed for the spot where she had disappeared.

About six miles from the ranch they struck the road to White Eagle, which ran north and south. It was here that the riders drew together, searching for the spot where the stage had been held up. The roadbed was so hard that it was impossible to distinguish anything out of the ordinary; so the searchers split into two parties, going in opposite directions.

Hashknife and Sleepy joined Swan River Smith, going toward Moolock, and they were the ones to find the spot. It was in a timbered swale, where a small stream trickled down across the road. The signs were fairly plain here. The stage had swerved half-off the road into softer ground.

To the west of the road a deep cattle trail wound down the swale, where the timber would mask it from the road. Hashknife discovered the trail, and in it were the fresh imprints of a shod horse.

“She came down that trail,” he told the sheriff, pointing out the tracks. “They picked a dandy place for the job, too. It kinda looks like she busted right into the holdup, without knowin’ it was takin’ place. She couldn’t see the road until she came out through them bushes, and they likely seen her first.”

“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hartley,” agreed Swan River. “Mebbe they had to do somethin’ to save themselves, don’tcha see? If it was somebody she knew--well, it kinda put ’em up against it.”

Hashknife examined the tracks closely, squatting on his heels. Swan River turned around to take another look at the trail, and Hashknife suddenly reached down, picked up a tiny object and put it in his pocket.

“Where’ll we go now?” he asked Swan River.

“The Lord only knows,” confessed the sheriff. “There’s no way to track ’em. I’ve heard about savages bein’ able to follow a trail where there wasn’t any--but I’m no savage. Dang it all, that’s the worst of bein’ a sheriff. Everybody expects him to be wise as ---- and with a nose like a bloodhound.”

“Might as well wait for the rest of the gang to come,” said Hashknife. “They’ll be bustin’ back this way soon. It was a cinch that Shorty Elkins didn’t drive an awful long ways, shot up thataway.”

* * * * *

They rolled cigarets and mused silently. There were no clues to work on. They had found where the stage had been stopped; but it had done them no good, as far as clues were concerned. It was possibly half-an-hour before the other riders arrived, and Hashknife showed Allenby what had happened at that spot.

Allenby listened dumbly, nodding his head; like a man who is too sick to talk.

“You think then that she was merely captured to prevent her from exposing the bandits?” queried Clayton.

“That’s about the only way to look at it,” said Hashknife. “Men don’t steal girls these days. It just ain’t done. I don’t know this country like some of yuh do,” Hashknife turned to the crowd, “If any of you was goin’ to steal a girl, where would yuh hide her?”

No one replied. Allenby stared dumbly ahead of him, his jaw shut tightly.

“I dunno where to look,” confessed Swan River. “It’s likely the same gang that held up the train.”

Allenby turned quickly and stared at the sheriff.

“The same two?” he said wearily. “Why--sure.” He turned and mounted his horse.

“Where are you goin’?” asked Swan River quickly.

Allenby picked up his reins, adjusted his belt.

“I’m going to kill the men who own a black headed pinto and a gray horse,” he said coldly. “I’m going, if I have to go alone.”

“Hank Bell,” said Forty Dollar Dion softly.

“Let’s talk about it a little,” advised Swan River. “They----”

“They wasn’t in town today,” interrupted Larry Neil.

“Neither were we,” said Hashknife, indicating himself and Sleepy.

“They’ve been stealing from me for over two years,” said Allenby grimly. “I helped to send Bud to the penitentiary. Hank Bell swore he’d get even with me. Their last steal was when they took three hundred Herefords from the Moolock loading pens.

“I hired a detective and they killed him--shot him in the back. The sheriff can’t deny that he thinks they robbed that train. He chased them to Tecoma, where they stole Hartley’s and Stevens’ horses, leaving the pinto and gray in their stead. If they’d steal my cattle, rob trains--is there any reason why they wouldn’t rob a stage--and steal my girl?”

“Why sit here and argue about it?” asked Harry Allenby. “Let’s go over to the HB and have it out with them.”

“Allenby’s argument looks ---- plausible to me,” stated Merton. “It’s worth workin’ on, ain’t it?”

“Worth workin’ on--but it ain’t worth killin’ on,” said Swan River. “It’s awful easy to make mistakes.”

“Well, I’m going down there,” declared Allenby. “If I have to go alone, I’ll go anyway. I’m going to find June.”

“That’s fine,” said Hashknife. “We’re all lookin’ for her, Allenby, but we ain’t on no killin’ spree. If I’m any judge of humanity, Hank, Bud and that Sticky Clay _sabe_ shootin’-irons. If we go down there, huntin’ for trouble, I’ll bet we find it. What do you fellers think?”

“I don’t care what they think!” exclaimed Allenby. “I’m going!”

“Wait a minute,” begged Clayton. “Hartley is right, Allenby. Right now you are in no frame of mind to go there. You know that those three men are dangerous. You are not a gunman. You wouldn’t have one chance in a thousand with them. No, you can’t get June back with a six-shooter.”

“You are all against me,” mourned Allenby pettishly. “Don’t you want me to get my daughter back?”

“Don’t be a ---- baby!” snorted Hashknife. “This is no time for hysterics.”

Harry shoved his horse close to Hashknife.

“You let up on that stuff,” he ordered. “You can’t come in here and tell us what to do.”

Hashknife grinned at Harry and the boy’s face flushed hotly.

“Back up, you ---- fool!” snorted Forty Dollar. “If you don’t keep yore mouth shut, Harry, somebody is goin’ to hit you so hard they’ll uncork yuh.”

Harry turned in his saddle and glared at Forty Dollar.

“By ----, I don’t have to take things like that!” he blurted.

“No, yuh don’t have to,” said Forty Dollar quietly. “If you’ve got any good ideas on how to handle this situation, yuh might step up and disgorge ’em. If yuh ain’t--shut up.”

“There’s a lot of truth in that,” agreed Clayton.

“Oh, go to ----!” Harry was sufficiently squelched to draw his horse back, but his face was black with rage.

The sun was just going down behind the hills, and they all knew that there was little daylight left to work in.

“If Hartley is right in his surmise, I don’t think that June will be injured in any way,” said Clayton. “I don’t think it is a situation that can be handled by force of arms. If we were lucky enough to blunder into them, it is hard to tell what they might do to keep her from exposing them.”

“That sounds like sense,” agreed Hashknife heartily. “This thing is not going to be easy to handle, nor is it a mob job.”

“What would you suggest?” asked Allenby. He seemed more at ease now.

“I’d suggest that we go home. Mebbe the girl wasn’t caught at all. We kinda went off half-cocked, just because a dyin’ man spoke her name. We don’t know for sure, don’tcha see?”

“That’s true,” agreed Allenby, willing to grasp at any straw.

“I wonder if that isn’t true?” Thus Clayton, visibly relieved.

“Let’s look at it thataway,” suggested Swan River. “Tomorrow is another day.”

After a few minutes of conversation, Hashknife, Sleepy, Harry and his father left the road and went back toward the ranch, while the rest of the searchers went on toward Moolock. Hashknife and Sleepy lagged back during that ride across the hills. “You ain’t hopin’ to see her at home, are yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Hopin’, thasall,” said Hashknife. “We had to bust up that argument someway, Sleepy. It’s a cinch that June got grabbed. Just who got her is a mystery. Me and you are goin’ to Moolock after supper.”

But June was not at the ranch. Allenby’s spirits went down below zero. He had evidently expected to find her there. Mrs. Allenby seemed very patient. She was not the kind of woman to show great emotion. Harry came down to the bunkhouse, where Hashknife and Sleepy were getting ready for supper, and apologized for what he had said.

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “That argument got on my nerves.”

“Thasall right,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe I’d ’a’ done the same thing. Just forget it, Harry.”

“Well, I’m glad yuh feel that way about it,” said Harry. “Dad seems to have great faith in you two.”

Hashknife smiled softly, as he hung up his towel.

“Faith is a great thing, Harry,” he said. “If folks ever have faith in yuh--don’t ruin it. This whole world is built on faith. Yuh can go a long ways, if yuh have faith in yoreself; but the minute yuh lose faith in yoreself--yore done. And yore done, when others lose faith in yuh.”

“Are you a preacher?” asked Harry, a trifle sarcastically.

“A preacher?” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “No-o-o, I’m not a preacher, Harry. Mebbe I’m my brother’s keeper.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you ever read the Bible?”

“No. I’m not religious.”

Hashknife smiled.

“What is religion, Harry?”

“I dunno. Lot of ---- Bible-backs, I reckon.”

Harry turned away and went out of the bunkhouse. Sleepy grinned at Hashknife and said--

“Shall we sing a hymn before supper, cowboy?”

Hashknife squinted seriously, as the cook hammered on the triangle at the kitchen door, calling them to supper.

“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think we’ll sing, Sleepy. A little prayer might be a lot better.”

“A prayer for who, Hashknife--us?”

“It all depends on what’s in the Big Book, pardner. Let’s eat.”

“So it’s come all ye punchers, Put yore belly to the bar And drink a fare-ye-well, ’Cause I’m goin’ mighty far, With a whang de oodle addy aye.”

* * * * *

Thus sang Lem Elder, a tall, weary-looking cowboy, who worked for Sam Bass, of the 27A outfit, as he rested his elbows on the White Horse saloon bar.

Pete Sepulveda was sitting on a card table, chin in hands, but now he looked up reprovingly at Lem.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to sing, Lem,” he said. “Songs ain’t appreciated in Moolock tonight. Yuh know, they ain’t found that girl yet.”

“That’s right,” nodded Lem. “Excuse me. That ---- whisky they sell here makes yuh sing. Is anybody huntin’ for her, Pete?”

“Not now, I guess. Allenby and his bunch went home. Wasn’t much they could do in the dark.”

“I seen Harry and them two strange punchers ride in a while ago.” Thus Pinon Meade, another of Sam Bass’ men. Pinon was small of stature, but wide of shoulder. He had been so nicknamed from his fondness for pinon nuts.

“That’s Hartley and Stevens,” offered Pete. “They took the place of Omaha and Chet Hoban at the Half-Circle Cross.”

“Hoban and Olsen get fired?” queried Lem.

“Yesterday. Had a run-in with Allenby. They’re still here in town. They’re two danged good cow-hands.”

“Where did Hartley and Stevens come from?” asked Pinon.

“I dunno. Just drifted in, I suppose.”

“Good cow-hands?”

“I’ll betcha they are.”

Harry Allenby came in, his face flushed with drink, and set up the drinks to the three cowboys.

“Any news?” queried Pete.

“Not a thing,” replied Harry, glancing toward the door. “Bud Bell is in town.”

“Alone?” asked Pete.

“The old man and Sticky Clay are with him.”

“Put yore troubles in yore war-bag,” advised Pete meaningly.

“You think I’m afraid of them?” Harry drained his glass and flipped it back on the bar. He was drunk enough to be reckless.

“I would be,” said Lem Elder seriously.

“----, you fellers make me tired! I’ll get ’em one at a time.”

Pinon Meade laughed and walked out of the place. Harry’s eyes snapped angrily. The strong liquor was percolating through his veins, taking away what little judgment he might have had. He rubbed the palm of his right hand on the butt of his revolver, and his lips screwed into a sneering grin. His nose and upper lip were still swollen a little, and he did not look pretty.

He did not notice that Pete and Lem had stepped away from him, nor that the bartender had moved quietly toward the other end of the bar. He was facing the door, squinting at the floor, and now he looked up to see Sticky Clay framed in the doorway.

Harry blinked, as though not believing his eyes. Clay did not move. Then Harry swayed away from the bar, his right hand streaking for his gun. Harry was fast with his draw, but not fast enough. The experienced gunman in the doorway flipped his hand forward, fired almost from his hip. Clay’s draw was almost too fast for the eye to follow. Harry took a half-step backward, dropped his gun and fell forward on his face, arms outspread. For several moments Clay leaned forward, watching him. Then he straightened up, snapped his gun back in the holster and spoke to Pete--

“You saw this, Pete?”

Pete nodded quickly.

“Yeah, we all seen it, Sticky.”

“Lookin’ for it, wasn’t he, Pete?”

“Yeah, he was.”

“Got it, didn’t he?”

Pete nodded.

“Everybody satisfied then,” Sticky Clay turned and disappeared. Pete and Lem turned Harry over, expecting to find him dead; but he was far from it. The heavy bullet had scored along his head from the left temple to his left ear, where it had taken the top of his ear off cleanly. He was bleeding freely, but recovering nicely from the shock. An inch farther to the right, and Harry Allenby would have been a casualty.

They helped him into a chair and bound his head in a none-too-clean handkerchief. The report of the gun had caused the curious to go searching for its cause, with the result that Harry was soon surrounded, and the White Horse saloon began doing a good business.

Swan River Smith investigated, and nodded over Pete Sepulveda’s story; while Hashknife and Sleepy listened closely.

“He was lookin’ for trouble, Swan River,” said Pete. “I don’t blame Clay a ---- bit. Harry started his draw first.”

“And that settles it,” said the sheriff. “As long as it was an even break.”

Some one had gone after the doctor, who bandaged Harry, in spite of Harry’s protests that he did not need any attention.

“You let him do it,” said Clayton. “If you don’t have it fixed up now, you’ll be marked for life. You’re lucky.”

The shock had sobered Harry, and he had nothing to say. Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to the general merchandise store, where they found Hank and Bud Bell. Bud nodded to them. Several men were in the store, talking about the missing girl and about the stage robbery. Hashknife bought some tobacco and began rolling a cigaret, when he saw Bud Bell signal him to come outside.

Bud sauntered out and in a few moments Hashknife followed him. Sleepy had seen the signal to Hashknife, but did not go with him. Bud had walked down the sidewalk out of the lights, and Hashknife joined him.

“Hartley,” he said, without any preliminaries, “I want you to tell me all about this. I’ve heard several tales, but they are all different.”

“Mebbe mine is, too,” said Hashknife. “Anyway, here’s how it looked from my knot-hole.”

He told Bud all he knew about the shooting of Shorty Elkins and the disappearance of June Allenby. Bud did not interrupt. He told Bud his conclusions regarding the reasons for June’s disappearance.

“Thank yuh, Hartley,” he said. “Do you remember ‘Slim’ Stout?”

“Slim Stout?” Hashknife took the cigaret out of his mouth and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do. I sent him to the pen.”

“That’s where I met him, Hartley. He told me about you.”

“Thasso?”

“Yes. He’s still got five years before he can look for a parole or a pardon. He says you let him off easy.”

“Shell stuck in my gun,” said Hashknife. “Slim didn’t know it, I reckon.”

Bud laughed shortly.

“Slim didn’t tell it that way.”

“Likely lied to yuh. Now listen, Bell; as friend to friend, I want to warn yuh. Things are gettin’ hotter every minute. Allenby has piled up evidence enough to hang a king--that is, outside the law. Sticky Clay and Harry Allenby just tried to kill each other a while ago, as you know. Allenby didn’t get hurt much.”

“As friend to friend?” said Bud wonderingly.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Why? Was it you who turned those two horses loose?”

“I needed the stable space,” lied Hashknife.

“Yeah? And now yore workin’ for Allenby?”

“Externally.”

“Why are you takin’ an interest in me, Hartley?”

“I dunno. Why does the wind blow? Ask me somethin’ easy. Now you take my advice and don’t go to sleep. I know that all three of you are able to get along without crutches; but yuh can’t buck the whole county. I’m doin’ all I can, Bell. If they hang yuh, that won’t help me much--nor you either. I’m goin’ to sneak out to see yuh just as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Hartley.”

“Don’t thank me.”

* * * * *

Hashknife turned and walked across the street to the Elk saloon, leaving Bud alone to think it over. More men were coming in to town. Bud walked back to the store, signaled to his father, and together they got their horses. They knew that Sticky had gone home after the shooting, to prevent complications which were bound to ensue, if he stayed in town.

“Things look kinda cranky, Bud,” observed the old man.

“Yeah, and I’m afraid they’ll get worse, Dad. Stealin’ a girl is bad business. There’s a lot of talk and a lot of whisky in Moolock tonight; so we better keep out of sight. I wish Sticky had kept away from Harry Allenby; but Harry was lookin’ for it, and Clay is always willin’ to accommodate. They tell me that Harry started the draw first.”

“Young Allenby is a fool to draw with Clay,” observed the old man. “What did that tall cowpuncher want, Bud?”

“Wanted to give me some advice.”

“He’s workin’ for Allenby, ain’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we don’t need any advice from that ---- outfit.”

“This didn’t come from the outfit, Dad. If it ever comes to a showdown, don’t hurt that tall puncher. And if he asks yuh to do somethin’--do it.”

“Who in ---- is he, Bud?”

“He turned the pinto and gray out of Swan River’s stable.”

“But he’s workin’ for Allenby, Bud.”

“Yeah. I don’t _sabe_ it, but I’m willin’ to foller his advice.”

While the Bell family rode homeward, Hashknife went to the White Horse saloon. Harry Allenby was still there, but fairly sober now. His head was bandaged and he was unable to wear his hat. Swan River took Hashknife aside and imparted the information that there was too much talk, mixed with whisky, to suit him.

“This girl-stealin’ has worked everybody up to a pitch,” he declared. “Dang it, they’ll ruin everythin’ if they start out on a rampage. I’ve done a lot of talkin’, and I’ve kinda got some of ’em sore at me. Are Bud and Hank still in town?”

“Just left a few minutes ago,” said Hashknife. “I think Clay left just after the shootin’.”

More men came into the saloon. Hashknife and Swan River sat down at a vacant card table near the rear of the room, where they could watch the place. Harry Allenby was drinking again, and seemed to parade his bandages, talking loudly.

“Swan River, have you still got that letter --the one that Seeley had in his pocket?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff drew it out of an inside pocket and handed it to Hashknife, who spread it out on the table. For several minutes he studied it closely, squinting away from the smoke of his cigaret. He was about to fold it up, when something caused him to look at it again.