Part 6

After concentrating on it for a space of time he looked up at Swan River, a grin widening his mouth.

“What’s funny in that letter?” asked Swan River.

“Nothin’,” grinned Hashknife. “I was just thinkin’ about somethin’ else. Mind if I keep this letter?”

Swan River shook his head, “It ain’t of no use to me.”

Forty Dollar came in and walked straight to their table. Forty was serious as he sat down.

“Somethin’ is goin’ to bust pretty soon,” he declared. “Over at the Elk, they’re talkin’ too much to suit me. Some son-of-a-gun has told about them two horses, and a few of the gang wants to know if the sheriff’s office is standin’ in with the robbers.”

Swan River’s jaw clamped tightly and he got to his feet.

“I’ll answer their ---- questions,” he rasped, and started for the door. Clayton was coming in, and they almost collided. Clayton’s sleeve was torn and he had the general appearance of one who had been fighting.

He stepped away from the sheriff and went to the bar, where he drank alone, turned with his back against the bar and looked around the room.

“Kinda looks like friend Clayton had been fightin’,” observed Forty Dollar.

Forty’s observation was punctuated with a “_zz-zwhap!_”. Clayton’s shoulders thudded back against the bar and Hashknife went sidewise out of his chair, while from outside came the report of a shot.

Clayton ducked, putting the end of the bar between himself and the open doorway, while the rest of the crowd scattered to get out of line. For several moments Clayton clawed at his shirt front. The bullet had burned across his chest, tearing a shallow furrow, but doing little damage; after which it passed within a short distance of Hashknife’s head and thudded into the rear wall.

“Hurt yuh much?” asked Hashknife.

Clayton shook his head, sprang to his feet and ran out through the rear entrance. Disregarding a possible second shot, Hashknife and Forty Dollar ran out through the front doorway and into the street. It was too dark, beyond the front window illumination, for them to see anyone.

Swan River came running from the Elk saloon, followed by several men, who had heard the shot. But the shooter had made himself scarce. Hashknife drew Swan River aside and together they made the rounds of the saloons, checking up on the cowboys

As far as they were able to find out, no one was missing, except Clayton.

“Do yuh reckon they was tryin’ to kill you or Clayton?” asked Sleepy, who joined them at the Elk.

“That’s hard to tell, Sleepy. We’ll figure it was Clayton. He’d had trouble with somebody just before that shot was fired. If we can find Clayton, mebbe he’ll tell who it was--if he knows.”

But they were unable to find Clayton; so Swan River opined that Clayton was hiding out. The folks of Moolock town were getting plenty of food for conversation. Hashknife was curious about the trouble between Harry Allenby and Sticky Clay; so he found Pete Sepulveda and asked him about it.

“Harry was lookin’ for it,” explained Pete, a trifle thickly. “Pinon Meade, Lem Elder, me and Harry was there in the saloon, when Harry got to makin’ his war-talk. Pinon pulled out and in a few seconds we happens to see Sticky in the doorway.

“Harry don’t see him for a while, yuh see. Pretty soon he looks up and sees Sticky. They look at each other about a second and Harry breaks for his gun. Sticky makes his draw, shoots from his hip, and Harry falls on his nose. Sticky thinks he’s killed Harry, I reckon; but he ain’t excited. It was an even break, thassall.”

“Much obliged, Pete,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Has there ever been any trouble between Harry and Pinon Meade?”

“I don’t reckon there has. Pinon ain’t quarrelsome.”

Hashknife drifted back to Swan River and Sleepy, where he found Frank Allenby, listening to Swan River tell about the gunbattle between Harry and Sticky Clay. Allenby said little. He seemed to have aged greatly in the last few hours. Hashknife drew him aside.

“Has there ever been any trouble between you and Pinon Meade?” asked Hashknife.

“Not at all,” replied Allenby. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wonderin’, thassall. You heard about somebody shootin’ at Clayton, haven’t yuh?”

Allenby nodded quickly.

“Yes, but I do not understand it. I can’t find Clayton anywhere. He is not at the hotel.”

“There’s a fly in the axle-grease somewhere,” mused Hashknife.

“I don’t know what to do,” admitted Allenby. “---- knows, I can’t stand it much longer. My wife just sits and looks at the wall. I wish she could cry. It helps a woman to cry, don’t you think so, Hartley?”

“Not as much as it does to laugh, Allenby. I want to ask you a personal question: Is Clayton goin’ to marry yore daughter?”

“What has that to do----?”

“I’m askin’--not answerin’, Allenby.”

“Suppose he is--what about it?”

“Is there anyone else who might want her bad enough to kill Clayton over her?”

Allenby took a deep breath and shut his jaw tightly for a moment. Then--

“Do you suppose that is why he tried to kill Clayton?”

“He? Who do you mean, Allenby?”

But Allenby refused to say. Harry went past them, his bandaged head visible in the weak light, and went into the Elk saloon. He staggered slightly, laughing loudly with the other men. Allenby left Hashknife and went into the saloon.

* * * * * Hashknife found Sleepy and together they went from place to place, listening to the general talk. It was mostly whisky conversation, and Hashknife did not feel that they were going to do anything rash. Later on he found Swan River, visibly relieved.

“I think everythin’ will be all right,” he told them. “I’ve talked with a few of them, includin’ Allenby, and they’ve all agreed to wait until mornin’. I’ve promised to lead a posse out to the HB ranch after daylight. If they--well, I dunno. Dang it, I’ve done the best I could, Hartley.”

“Nobody can say that yuh ain’t been fair,” agreed Hashknife.

“Mebbe I’ve been too fair, Hartley. Still, I discount everythin’ that happens, when there’s hate behind it. Christman hated old Hank Bell. Mebbe Allenby bought that hate along with the ranch.”

“How did they happen to catch Bud Bell that time?” asked Hashknife.

“When they sent him to the penitentiary? That was a little over two years ago. Allenby and Clayton--Clayton had only been here a few months at that time--were ridin’ through the hills, lookin’ over the stock.

“They were over near Two Men Cañon when they caught a glimpse of a man, who kinda seemed to be misbrandin’ a couple of critters. Had ’em roped and was heatin’ his iron, I reckon. Anyway, he seen ’em, too; so he snaps out of the brush on his horse, and hits into the hills, with Allenby and Clayton after him.

“He sure led ’em a merry chase, I guess. Allenby and Clayton got separated, and after while they gives up the chase. Clayton circles back to the two roped animals, and is lookin’ ’em over when Allenby gets back. They’re both branded fresh with the HB iron, kinda rough-like, and where the Half-Circle Cross ought to be, is a big spot burned over with a hot dry-pan.

“The rustlers sure must ’a’ been nervous to burn over that much space in ventin’ an ordinary brand. The HB ain’t very artistic, but there she is. That was all the evidence against Bud Bell. Old Hank couldn’t ’a’ done it, on account of bein’ crippled--and Sticky Clay was in a poker game at the Elk all that afternoon, which was an alibi for him. So they sent Bud up for stealin’ Half-Circle Cross stock.”

“Didn’t Bud have any defense at all?”

“How could he? Nobody would steal cattle for the HB. Yuh know, Bud used to wear one of them five-gallon sombreros, with a wide band, kinda studded with silver rosettes. Oh, yuh could see it a mile away, glistenin’ in the sun. Anyway, both Allenby and Clayton testified that this rustler wore no hat. Allenby says he was sure the man had a hat when they seen him first, but that he was bareheaded when he made his getaway.

“Allenby says he was too excited to remember just what kind of a hat this man had on when they seen him first. But it kinda made things worse for Bud. He’d naturally hide the hat, ’cause it was so well known and easy to identify.”

“And they didn’t get close enough to identify him for sure?”

“Nope. But their evidence sure convinced the jury.”

“The Half-Circle Cross brands on the right shoulder, and the HB on the right hip, don’t they?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. Bud sure vented a lot of space on the right shoulder of them two critters.”

“No argument about ’em bein’ Half-Circle Cross animals?”

“There might ’a’ been, Hartley; but yuh could look real close and find the old scars of the original brand. They’d ’a’ never showed up after a few days, when the new burn healed. No, there was no question about ’em bein’ Allenby’s stock.”

“And the vented spot was bigger than the old brand, eh?”

“----, yes; four or five times as big.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife grew thoughtful. “And yuh think there’s no danger of anybody doin’ anythin’ rash tonight, Sheriff?”

“Nope. They’ll likely drink a lot of liquor and kinda gird up their loins, but that’s about all. Will yuh ride out to the HB with us in the mornin’?”

“Very likely. I reckon we’ll go back to the ranch and get a little sleep now.”

Sleepy complained about leaving Moolock. It looked to Sleepy as though there might be trouble, and he did not want to miss any of it. He grumbled audibly, but rode out of town with Hashknife.

“I s’pose,” he said sarcastically, “that old folks like you have got to have their sleep, Hashknife.”

“You betcha,” agreed Hashknife. “Do you know the way to the HB ranch?”

“I can find it, Hashknife. You--say, what’s the idea?”

“Goin’ visitin, Sleepy. Folks ought to be neighborly, hadn’t they?”

“The road runs kinda south-east; so we better swing to the left. What are we goin’ to do out there? Didn’t Swan River say that he was----”

“Goin’ out there after daylight,” agreed Hashknife. “That’s the trouble with the ordinary sheriff, Sleepy--they want to make a parade out of it. They never find out anythin’.”

“What do you expect to find out, cowboy?”

“Parder, yuh never know what to expect. Anyway, we’re goin’ out thataway and see what we’ll see. Probably won’t see anythin’--mebbe we will.”

“Uh-huh.” Dubiously. “What was the idea of all them questions about Bud stealin’ cows and gettin’ sent to the pen?”

“Morbid curiosity, Sleepy. I just love to hear about grief and misery.”

“Oh, go to ----!” snorted Sleepy.

“Very likely--if there is such a place, Sleepy.”

It was about seven miles to the HB ranch from Moolock. The road wound through the hills, with little regard for grades; a strange road to the two cowboys, who only knew that somewhere along it was the HB ranch-house. In fact, at the end of it was the ranch, as it did not extend beyond.

There was no room yet, but the ribbon of road was easy to follow. The last few miles they rode silently, only the muffled sound of the horses in the dust to tell of their coming. The HB ranch buildings stood in the wide flat at the mouth of a cañon, and their silhouette was plainly visible from the road, which approached from a lower level.

No lights were visible, but Hashknife felt that somewhere around that black bulk of buildings some one was watching. They dismounted and led their horses away from the road into a clump of trees, which would screen them from anyone passing on the way to or from the ranch.

“Got to get higher,” said Hashknife, as he led the way out of the trees, keeping well away from the ranch, circling toward a rise of ground back of the stable. They were forced to proceed at a slow pace for fear of running into loose barb wire or other unknown difficulties.

At last they reached a point where they could look down on the group of buildings, and here they sat down to wait. It was well after midnight when they reached this point, and an hour later there was sufficient moonlight to enable them to distinguish something of the buildings and general contour of the surrounding country.

* * * * *

For a long time there was no sound, except the soft bawling of a cow in the corral. Far out in the hills a coyote called mournfully, and from the house came the short bark and growl of a dog. Then all was still again. Hour after hour went past, while the two cowboys huddled in the sage, unmoving, and worst of all, unsmoking.

The false dawn lighted the hills, and a chill wind swept down the cañon, causing the two cowboys to sink lower into the protecting brush. Suddenly Hashknife sat up. The dim figure of a man had crossed the corral and faded into the shadows of the stable.

“Didja see him?” asked Hashknife softly.

“Yeah,” Sleepy shivered. “He went into the stable. Probably one of the HB outfit doin’ his chores early. Of all the ---- fools on earth, we’re the worst. Settin’ out here in the cold all night--there he goes back again.”

The man crossed the corral again, going in the opposite direction. He either went through a gate or crawled through the fence, and blended with the shadows so well that they were unable to see him again. They listened to see if they could hear him shut a door in the house, but there was no sound.

After several moments the dog barked loudly, and from over on the side of a hill came the snapping bark of a coyote. The dog, evidently under leash, grew frantic with its barking; but the coyote did not respond. Hashknife laughed softly.

“What’s so danged funny?” asked Sleepy.

“That coyote.”

“What in ---- is funny about a coyote?”

“Nothin’ in general, Sleepy; but that one prob’ly smokes cigarets and packs a gun.”

“Yuh mean that it wasn’t a coyote, Hashknife?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Aw, ----! Why would any man imitate a coyote thataway?”

“To make the dog bark.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sarcastically. Sleepy was chilled to the bone and aching for a cigaret. “Why in ---- would he want to make a dog bark, if I may ask yuh?”

“So that anybody would think he was barkin’ at a coyote.”

“All right, all right. Some day I’m goin’ to ask you a question and get an intelligent answer.”

“And what then, Sleepy?”

“The shock will kill me.”

Hashknife laughed softly and got to his feet.

“Let’s sneak down there and see what that jigger was doin’. He never went into the house; so I don’t figure he’s part and parcel of the HB outfit.”

Cautiously they made their way down the hill and came in behind the stable. Daylight was coming swiftly now, but there was no sign of the man who had crossed the corral. They slid through the corral fence, circled the interior until opposite the door of the stable, where they again passed through the fence.

Part of a long, low shed blocked their view of the house.

“Wait here and keep watch,” whispered Hashknife. “I’m goin’ inside.”

Sleepy crouched against the fence, while Hashknife opened the stable door and went inside. He was in there so long that Sleepy became nervous. It was daylight now, and Sleepy felt like a burglar. He turned his head and looked toward the road. Only a few hundred yards away, coming up the road, was a big group of horsemen.

“That ---- sheriff’s posse!” snorted Sleepy. He ran to the stable door to notify Hashknife, and met him coming out.

“Swan River and his men are here!” he blurted. “Whatsa matter, didja go to sleep in there?”

Hashknife ran to the corner of the stable and watched the horsemen swing in toward the house.

“C’mon,” he whispered, running straight back toward the hill, keeping the stable between him and the ranch-house. Sleepy was at his heels, and together they tumbled into a shallow washout behind some wild rose bushes.

“We can get back to the horses by goin’ down this washout,” said Hashknife. “Keep yore head down and c’mon.”

Swiftly they went down the narrow ravine, where the flood waters had gouged out the soft silt, coming out at the upper edge of a large brush patch, just above the thicket of cottonwoods.

It did not take them long to get their horses, swing back into the road and head for the ranch-house. The posse was grouped at the ranch-house door, talking to old Hank, Bud and Sticky Clay. Swan River had dismounted and was leaning against the porch, but the rest of the crowd were still in their saddles.

They turned to look as Hashknife and Sleepy rode up to them.

“Missed yuh in town, Sheriff,” said Hashknife. The sheriff nodded and turned to Hank Bell.

“I’m not chargin’ yuh with anythin’, Hank. I want yuh to understand that right here. There’s been so ---- much talk that I had an idea that we ought to come out here this mornin’ and find out how much of it was worth arguin’ about.”

Old Hank squinted at the posse, which was composed of Merton, Sepulveda, Allenby, Sam Bass, Larry Neil, Forty Dollar, Lem Elder, Omaha Olsen and Chet Hoban.

“Well,” said old Hank slowly, “what do yuh want to do?” He seemed curiously meek, weary.

“Just to satisfy everybody, suppose we search the place,” suggested Swan River.

Old Hank squinted closely at Swan River, as though wondering what they expected to find.

“Go ahead,” said Bud slowly. “I reckon we can stand for that.”

Old Hank nodded in agreement, and the posse dismounted.

“We’ll help yuh, if yuh need us,” grinned Sticky Clay.

Old Hank threw open the front door, and the posse filed inside, led by Swan River Smith. Hashknife and Sleepy did not go with them, but sat down on the little front porch. It did not take long to search the house, and then the posse split into two parts, to search the stable and other outhouses. Hashknife followed now, and helped them go over every inch of the place. For about an hour they stayed at the HB, leaving no stone unturned in their efforts to uncover some evidence.

But their time was wasted and they came back to their horses.

“Satisfied?” asked Bud.

Swan River nodded, as he swung into his saddle.

“Yeah, I’m satisfied, Bud--and I hope the rest are.”

The rest of them did not express an opinion. Allenby slumped in his saddle, paying little attention to anyone during the ride back to town. He had hoped to find June at the HB ranch.

“You never find girl there,” declared Sam Bass. “Bell’s no fool. We find nothing there.”

“That’s the way I felt about it,” said Swan River. “If Bell did rob the stage and steal the girl, he wouldn’t put her in a showcase for us to look at. This idea of goin’ out in a crowd is all foolishness, I tell yuh. Like Hartley said yesterday, this is a one or two man job.”

“That’s right,” agreed Sam.

Allenby, Hashknife and Sleepy did not stop in Moolock, but rode on to the Half-Circle Cross, intending to get breakfast at the ranch.

“I wish I knew what to do,” said Allenby wearily. “There is no clue, nothing to work on. The sheriff is right, when he says that those who stole June will not keep her where we can find her. If they want money----”

“I don’t reckon they do,” said Hashknife.

“I know how yuh feel, Allenby. I _sabe_ how yore wife must feel about it; but it’s somethin’ that can’t be helped right now. Did you see anythin’ of Clayton, after he got shot last night?”

“No, I didn’t see him, but Harry did. He told Harry he was going to the ranch. I think some one tried to kill him and that he was frightened into leaving town.”

“Harry had a close call,” observed Sleepy.

Allenby nodded sadly, but did not express an opinion. It seemed as though his hatred of the HB outfit had burned out, or had burned him out. Mrs. Allenby came from the house to meet them, hoping that they brought news, but was doomed to disappointment. She did not speak. Allenby turned his horse over to Hashknife to unsaddle, and walked to the house with her.

Hashknife and Sleepy stabled the horses and walked back to the bunkhouse. Clayton was sitting on the porch of the ranch-house, smoking.

“Well, we’re just as wise as we were before we went to the HB,” said Sleepy, stretching himself out on a bunk. “Lost one whole night’s sleep and didn’t gain a darned thing. That was probably one of the HB outfit that crossed the corral this mornin’.”

“I don’t hardly think so,” said Hashknife, yawning wearily. “It wasn’t none of the HB outfit that barked like a coyote.”

“Aw shucks!” Sleepy did not believe that a man had barked like a coyote.

“Well, the dog barked,” reminded Hashknife.

“Yeah, the dog barked. He was tied up.”

“And if the coyote hadn’t barked, some of the HB would ’a’ come out to see why the dog barked, wouldn’t they?”

Sleepy sat up and scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I suppose so, Hashknife.”

“The coyote barked first, didn’t it? Then the man crossed the corral. After he left the coyote barked closer, didn’t it? And the dog barked again--at the coyote.”

“Well, what in ---- has the coyote got to do with it? What had the man to do with it? You always make a lot out of nothin’, Hashknife. You make me lose a whole night’s sleep, and then you make boogers out of a man crossin’ a corral, or a coyote that sounds like a man. What good did it do us, I’d ask yuh?”

Hashknife walked to the window and looked toward the house. Allenby was sitting on the ranch-house porch, talking to Clayton, and there was no one else in sight. Hashknife turned and came back to Sleepy’s bunk.

He reached inside his shirt and drew out two flat envelopes covered with seals, which had been broken; two empty Manila envelopes, which had been shipped as valuable packages by an express company. Sleepy took them in his hands and looked them over.

“I had a awful time findin’ ’em in that barn,” said Hashknife, as he took them back and slipped them back inside his shirt. “They were under a currycomb and brush in a little box on the wall.”

“That’s some of the loot from the train robbery,” whispered Sleepy.

“They once held some of the loot,” corrected Hashknife.

“But the posse couldn’t find anythin’.”

“There wasn’t anythin’ left,” grinned Hashknife.

Sleepy squinted at the ceiling thoughtfully. Then--

“Hashknife, who searched that box on the wall?”

Hashknife grinned widely and shook his head.

“Swan River Smith did. These Moolock outlaws ain’t fools, cowboys. Now will yuh believe that a man barked like a coyote, Sleepy?”

“----, I’d believe that they buzzed like a rattler, if you say so. Right now I’m in the right frame of mind to believe anythin’. Have yuh got any clue, Hashknife; anythin’ to work on? Oh, ----, you wouldn’t say so, if yuh had a million clues.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a clue--but I can’t tell yuh what it is.”

“All right. Keep me in ignorance.”

“Don’t blame me for what nature done to yuh, Sleepy. Let’s snore a few lines, whatcha say? Mebbe we’ll need it.”

“I can always do that, pardner. Sleep is m’ first name.”

* * * * *

While Hashknife and Sleepy slumbered in the bunkhouse, Allenby told Clayton about their failure to secure any evidence against the HB outfit. He told of the search and of Hank Bell’s willingness to have them search the place.

“He’s no fool,” grumbled Clayton. “He’s been expecting trouble for a long time, and he surely wouldn’t take a chance on having any incriminating evidence in sight. If he and his outfit robbed that stage and kidnapped June, they wouldn’t take her to the ranch.”

“No, I suppose not, Clayton. Have you any idea who shot at you?”

“Not in the least,” Clayton shook his head, as he felt of his bandaged chest, where the bullet had scored his breastbone.

“You haven’t had any trouble with anyone, have you?”

Clayton shook his head again quickly.

“Not a bit of it. The only person who might have done it would be that fellow Clay, who shot Harry.”

“Did you have any trouble with Clay?”

“Not a bit. I just thought perhaps he might be sore at all of us. I have been out here so much that they seem to think that I am one of the Half-Circle Cross outfit.”

“I suppose so,” said Allenby dubiously. “Still, it is hardly reasonable, Clayton. Sticky Clay is a gunman, and I don’t think he would try to murder you in cold blood.”