Part 7
“Well, pick a more likely man to suspect,” Clayton was angered a little over Allenby’s insistence. “I’ve thought about it until I can’t arrive at any conclusion. Perhaps that bullet was intended for Hartley. It did not miss him far.”
“That might be possible, too. Where is Harry?”
“He went back to town this morning after breakfast. Did Hartley and Stevens ride with the posse?”
“They got there after we did. What time did they leave here this morning?”
“They didn’t sleep here last night.”
“Didn’t they? That’s queer. Swan River Smith said they had gone back to the ranch. They didn’t stay in Moolock.”
“Well, they didn’t stay here,” declared Clayton. “Harry and I slept in the bunkhouse.” He turned his chair and looked at Allenby, as he lowered his voice-- “Do you know much about those two men?”
Allenby nodded slowly.
“I know what Freeman told me. He said that Hartley was the shrewdest cattle detective that ever wore a gun. I am not going to question what they do, Clayton. If they wanted to tell the sheriff that they were coming here to the ranch last night, and went elsewhere--that is their business.”
“But you did not hire them as detectives?”
“I did not. But I told them both that my former offer of five thousand dollars for a conviction still stands, and that they could do as they pleased while on the job.”
“Well, that’s different,” nodded Clayton. “I just didn’t understand the arrangement. I think I’ll go back to town and see if anything new has turned up. Want to go along?”
“Not now, Ed.”
Allenby went into the house, while Clayton, deep in thought, went to the stable, saddled his horse and rode toward Moolock.
The cook at the Half-Circle Cross did not believe in cooking and serving meals in the middle of the afternoon, but he made an exception in the case of Hashknife and Sleepy. “Wood-tick” Wylie was an old camp-cook, sour of disposition, crippled in both knees with rheumatism, and filled with indignation at the way the United States was run by those at Washington.
“’F I was the Gover’nor of this danged state, I’d have troops in here, by jin!” he told Hashknife confidentially. “C’n yuh imagine sich a condition of affairs? C’n yuh? I can’t. Somebody steals a girl. M’ ----, they ort to be torn limb from limb.”
Wood-tick shredded a helpless biscuit by way of illustration.
“Yeah, yore right,” admitted Hashknife. “You sure do mingle a wonderful egg, old timer.”
“Don’t I? When it comes to aigs, I know more than the first hen what laid one. I had a chance to cook f’r Teddy Rosenfeld once. Ain’t they doin’ nothin’ to try and retrieve that girl? Best danged girl yuh ever seen, too. Allenby don’t do nothin’ much. Helpless as ----.
“Her ma is in there--” he lowered his voice and came closer--“she’s in there lookin’ at June’s pitcher. Jist lookin’ at it, mind yuh. Acts like June was dead. Yes, sir, she ain’t et nothin’ since yest’day. Got a good appetite, too--most of the time. ----’s hinges! Wish I was sheriff of this ---- county. I’d shore run somebody a ragged race.”
“Kinda hard for the sheriff to get somethin’ to work on,” said Hashknife, his mouth filled with egg.
“Work on! M’ ----, I’d make somethin’ to work on. Who shot at Clayton? Nobody knows, eh? Sticky Clay smoked up Harry, did he? By the muddy Missouri River, this here county is gittin’ as salty as Utah. Want more aigs? Got a slew of ’em. No?”
“Seems kinda funny to me that none of the other women folks around this county have come in to weep with Mrs. Allenby,” observed Sleepy.
“Ain’t nothin’ funny about it,” denied Wood-tick. “Allenby is to blame for it all. He’s been so danged uppity, thassall. He ain’t never fit in with reg’lar folks. Thinks he’s worth more than they are. ----, yuh can’t do that.”
“Don’t make friends, eh?” Thus Hashknife.
“Don’t make nothin’ but money.”
“And somebody steals the profits, eh?”
“They shore do. I kinda think that some folks don’t believe that Allenby lost as much stock as he says he has; but he’s lost it all right. It’s killin’ him by inches. Allenby don’t think no more of a dollar than he does of his family--or not much more, anyway.”
Hashknife pushed away from the table and began rolling a cigaret.
“They tell me that he don’t give his family much to spend.”
“Much, ----! Nothin’.”
They thanked Wood-tick for the meal and went outside. Mrs. Allenby was standing on the front porch, looking off across the hills, shading her eyes. Hashknife studied her for a moment, before going around to the porch. She lowered her hand away from her eyes and looked at Hashknife.
“I--I was just looking,” she said simply.
“Yes’m,” he nodded. “The hills are kinda pretty this time of day.”
“Pretty?” She shook her head slowly. “I didn’t notice--much.”
“Where is Mr. Allenby?” he asked.
“I think he went to town.”
“Oh, yeah, I suppose he did.”
“I wish Harry would come home. He stays away most of the time these days. Where do you suppose June is?”
“I dunno, ma’am. It’s all kinda mixed up. Clayton was goin’ to marry June, wasn’t he?”
Mrs. Allenby stared at Hashknife, and a little color came back to her white cheeks.
“Who told you that?” she asked.
“I don’t remember. It wasn’t a secret, was it, Mrs. Allenby?”
“No, I--I don’t know.” She shook her head slowly. “Mr. Allenby wouldn’t----”
“He didn’t want Clayton for a son-in-law, eh?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, he didn’t, Mrs. Allenby. Would you want him?”
“Mr. Clayton?”
“Yeah.”
“Why--I--what right have you to ask me a question of that kind?”
“Mrs. Allenby, I don’t want to pry into your secrets; but I’ve got to know a few things. If you want your daughter back----”
“Oh, but I do!” Mrs. Allenby gripped the porch-post and stared at Hashknife. “I would sacrifice anything to get June home again.”
“Sure yuh would. You’ll get her, ma’am; but you’ve got to have a lot of patience. Now, I want you to answer me this: Does June want to marry Clayton?”
She turned away, shaking her head.
“All right. But you’ve done quite a lot to convince her that she ought to marry him, ain’t yuh?”
Mrs. Allenby turned quickly and stared at him.
“What makes you say that?” she asked hoarsely.
“Because it is true,” Hashknife knew that his guess had been correct. “Now you are goin’ to tell me why you wanted June to marry Clayton.”
“How did you find out these things?” Mrs. Allenby’s face was white, but her voice did not tremble now. “Who told you?”
“Nobody, ma’am. Mebbe I read it in the clouds. I just want yuh to tell me why yuh promoted Clayton.”
“Promoted him?”
“Well, somethin’ like that. Go ahead and talk about it.”
For several moments Hashknife was afraid that she was going to rebel. Finally she sat down in a rocking-chair near him, and he knew that the point was won.
“It was the wrong thing to do,” she began slowly. “But you do not know my husband. His one ambition is money. All his life he has been a slave to money. No, I am not complaining, nor excusing myself. I did wrong, and I will admit everything I have done.
“Ed Clayton has wanted to marry June ever since he first came here to buy cattle. June did not seem to care for him. Mr. Allenby liked him as a cattle-buyer, but he did not want him to marry June.
“I did not dislike Ed Clayton. He was a gentleman, until----”
Mrs. Allenby shook her head sadly.
“At any rate he asked Mr. Allenby for June’s hand, and was refused. It did not seem to make any difference to Clayton. He told me about it all, and asked me to intercede for him. I knew it was useless. When Mr. Allenby makes up his mind to a thing, nothing can change him.
“I told Mr. Clayton that it would not help his case in any way. He and Harry were great friends; so Harry came and asked me to help Clayton out. Harry liked Clayton, who always had money. You know, Harry never has any money. His father does not believe in giving children money--and he does not realize that Harry and June have grown up.
“Later I began to hear stories about Harry. They said that he was drinking and gambling. I know that his father heard the same stories, but he merely laughed and proved to me that it was all lies, because Harry had no money to drink and gamble with.
“Ed Clayton knew that I idolized my children. He knew that I would go to any length to help them. So one day he came to me and asked me to see if I couldn’t help him win June. I gave him the same answer. He did not get angry, nor did he threaten; but he did show me receipts for borrowed money, a total of five thousand dollars, signed with Harry’s name.
“Clayton had loaned Harry all that money. Clayton knew what Mr. Allenby would do, if he knew that Harry had done such a thing. But Clayton did not threaten me. He just pointed out the fact that some one must pay that money. He had loaned it in good faith.
“He said to me--
“‘Mrs. Allenby, I love June more than anything in the world, and I will try to make her happy. I feel sure that a little urging will win for me. And, in that event, I will give you these receipts, and everything will be forgotten.’
“That is why I tried to--oh, I know it was all wrong, but----”
“Yeah, it was all wrong, Mrs. Allenby,” agreed Hashknife.
“But my urging did not help--” Mrs. Allenby was crying now--“and I am glad. It would have been like selling my June. I realized it afterward, but at that time I could only see what might happen to Harry, don’t you see?”
“Yeah, I see,” Hashknife got to his feet. “I’m sure obliged to yuh, ma’am. This here is a secret between us.”
“Oh, I hope so,” she said wearily. “I don’t know why I told it to you.”
“Thasall right, ma’am,” smiled Hashknife, as he walked back to the bunkhouse, where he joined Sleepy.
“What was you and the lady chawin’ about, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.
“Arguin’ about raisin’ chickens. She favored Plymouth Rocks and I held out for Rhode Island Reds.”
“And she cried for her side, eh? Yeah, I seen her wipe her eyes. You can lie faster than I can, Hashknife.”
* * * * *
Hashknife grinned and headed for the stable, where they saddled their horses and started for town. They found Forty Dollar at the sheriff’s office, bewailing everything.
“Swan River has led out another posse,” he told them. “He’s got Allenby, Sepulveda, Merton, Omaha and Hoban with him, and they’re headin’ toward Tecoma. Dunno where in ---- they’re goin’, but they’re goin’, thassall. Swan River made me stay here, dang his old hide. Said somebody had to protect the office.”
He did not get much sympathy from Hashknife and Sleepy; so he paraded the rest of his woes, thusly:
“Ed Clayton is drunk and wants to fight somebody, the big brute. Harry Allenby is drunk enough to brag again, and he wants to help Clayton whip somebody, and there ain’t nobody around here to accommodate ’em. Pinon Meade might fight the two of ’em, if he got drunk enough; but Clayton, alone, is twice as big as Pinon. So there yuh are. On account of my official position I can’t fight ’em. Any news of the lost girl?”
Hashknife grinned at Forty Dollar’s woes and shook his head.
“No news, Forty. You heard anythin’?”
“How the ---- could I, settin’ here all the time?”
Forty Dollar borrowed Hashknife’s Durham and rolled a cigaret.
“It ain’t none of my business,” he said pointedly, “but I was just wonderin’ where you two fellers were when we rode up to the HB this mornin’.”
Hashknife lifted his brows slightly, but his expression remained the same. Then a smile wreathed his lips.
“What makes yuh ask that question, Forty?”
“Curiosity. We was late gettin’ started, and we sure did whang ---- out of our horses all the way. We never passed yuh on the road, and when yuh came up to us, yore horses wasn’t even breathin’ hard.”
“Forty Dollar,” grinned Hashknife, “yore a born detective.”
“Yeah? Well, I do notice some things. I kinda had a hunch that you fellers was pokin’ around. Swan River wondered why yuh wasn’t there to join the posse, and I told him that you wasn’t the kind to run in packs.”
“I reckon that’s true,” laughed Hashknife. “Swan River didn’t say when he’d be back, did he?”
“He didn’t know. Everybody expects him to be headin’ a searchin’ party; so he’s doin’ it. He was just ready to start when Allenby rode in; so they took him along. I reckon Clayton didn’t know they were goin’. Anyway, he didn’t go along.”
They invited Forty Dollar to go over to the Elk saloon with them, but he declined. Swan River had told Forty Dollar to stay at the office, which meant in town, but Forty Dollar translated it literally, and gloried in his martyrdom.
Harry Allenby was at the Elk, still wearing his bandage, which was slightly disarranged, and he was more than partly drunk. Hashknife took him aside and advised him to go home, but Harry would have none of Hashknife’s advice.
“You ain’t runnin’ my business,” he told Hashknife angrily. “I do as I ---- please.”
“That’s yore whole trouble,” said Hashknife. “Yo’re just a fool kid, without brains enough to pound sand into a rathole. You go on home and quit spendin’ money that don’t belong to you.”
The shot went home. Harry’s eyes blinked for a moment and he had difficulty in swallowing; but he tried to bluff.
“What in ---- do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“You know what I mean, Harry. If you want me to tell it, I’ll tell it loud enough for every one to hear.”
“Who told you that?” Harry’s voice was hoarse with anxiety.
“Who told me what?” asked Hashknife.
“That--that--” Harry hesitated, trying to clear his thoughts. “That I was spending money that didn’t belong to me,” he finished lamely. “It’s a lie, anyway.”
“It’s the truth, kid,” Hashknife spoke softly and with conviction. “Yore mother wants yuh to come home.”
“Aw, ----!” Harry turned away and walked outside.
For several minutes he stood on the porch of the saloon, thinking it over, but decided that he didn’t want to go home; so he walked up to the White Horse saloon and went inside.
There were few men in the Elk. Three cowpunchers were playing a game of freeze-out at one of the tables, while “Snowy” Garnette and a railroad contractor were playing two-handed stud. Hashknife and Sleepy drifted to the pool-table and began playing bottle pool.
Their game was about half finished when Harry came back, and with him was Ed Clayton. Clayton had been drinking, but he was not drunk. He and Harry had a drink together, and were at the bar when Hashknife and Sleepy put up their cues.
Hashknife noticed that both of them were serious, and as Hashknife approached the bar Clayton stepped in front of him. In spite of Hashknife’s height, Clayton was half-a-head taller, and weighed at least fifty pounds more.
“Who in ---- told you that I loaned Harry money?” asked Clayton angrily.
Hashknife squinted coldly at Clayton and said--
“I didn’t say yuh did, Clayton.”
“You didn’t?” Clayton whirled on Harry. “Didn’t you say he told you that, Harry?”
“Why, I--I--that’s what he meant, Ed. He didn’t----”
“----!” Clayton turned back to Hashknife. “Where did you get this misinformation, Hartley?”
“I don’t reckon I was misinformed,” smiled Hashknife easily. “It kinda looks like Harry had proved it. I didn’t say who he got the money from--but _he_ did.”
“Is that so?” Clayton sneered openly. “Well, I just want to tell you that it’s none of your ---- business, Hartley. You are taking too much for granted, and I want you to keep your face out of my business, or I’ll bust it wide open.”
“Yore business?” asked Hashknife innocently. “That won’t take much, because it’s already beginnin’ to crack.”
Clayton was rather a sudden sort of person, and believed in the theory that the first punch wins. This tall, skinny puncher was only three feet away, slouched easily, when Clayton’s left fist snapped straight for his jaw. But that easy slouch was misleading, and allowed Hashknife to sway aside while the blow merely swished into empty air.
Hashknife did not lift his hands, but he did step back with a grin on his lips. Clayton blinked and recovered his balance. It was the first time he had missed with the snappy left, which was his stock in trade, and usually put him in a good position to finish the fight without much opposition. The card games ceased immediately. Harry started forward, only to have Sleepy kick his feet from under him and drop him in a sitting position half under a table.
“Git a front seat!” grunted Sleepy.
Clayton forced a smile to cover his chagrin. He did not expect this cowpuncher to put up a fight.
“Yuh hadn’t ought to telegraph yore punch,” grinned Hashknife. “A one-punch fighter like you ought to figure out a system, Clayton. Yuh tried to sneak one on me, but yore eyes and the whole left side of yuh told me what yuh was goin’ to do.”
“Did, eh?” Clayton smiled grimly as he fell into a crouch.
“Stop this one!” He darted at Hashknife, smashing with both hands. It was a disastrous attack. His right fist snapped against the top of Hashknife’s head, the left missed entirely, and Clayton went backward, half doubled up from a punishing smash in the stomach.
He backed out of range, his mouth wide open, as he tried to pump air into his lungs. Hashknife laughed and shook his head.
“Go in and get him, cowboy,” advised Sleepy. “He’s whipped right now.”
“Like ---- he is!” snorted Clayton, shutting his teeth, and trying to strain the kinks out of his midriff.
“Well, come on and finish it,” invited Hashknife. “If I wanted to whip yuh, I’d ’a’ stopped the fight before this; but it ain’t no fight of my makin’, Clayton.”
Clayton was game, but wary. He had tasted one of Hashknife’s punches, and did not care for another of the same kind; so he elected to try the long-range game. He felt that this cowpuncher knew nothing about boxing. Some one shoved a table away, to give them more room, and Harry Allenby crawled on his hands and knees to the bar-rail, where he sat down, closely watched by Sleepy.
Clayton went in slowly, balanced easily on the balls of his feet, his guard high. Hashknife watched him calmly, guard down. It seemed to anger Clayton to think that this lanky person did not take the fight seriously enough to put up his hands.
Clayton stepped in range, snapping his left at Hashknife’s head. It was rather a weak attempt and Hashknife avoided it easily as he stepped inside the blow, blocked Clayton’s right, and drove another punch to Clayton’s middle.
It was enough to cause Clayton to drop his guard and step back; but this time the lanky cowboy stepped with him, and before Clayton could lift a hand to stop it, Hashknife uppercut him to the point of his jaw, with a full sweeping blow--and the fight ended.
Clayton collapsed heavily, rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling.
* * * * *
“The most complete thing I ever seen,” declared Snowy Garnette, leaving the table and walking to the fallen man. “I knew that Clayton would get whipped some day; but I thought it would take a bigger man than he is.”
The bartender threw a little water into Clayton’s face, and he sat up, gasping. It was a full minute before he realized what had happened. He got painfully to his feet, leaned on the bar for a while, trying to regain his balance, and walked outside, without a word. Harry Allenby followed him, rather disconsolately. His idol had fallen--and fallen hard.
No one asked Hashknife what started the fight. Snowy invited every one to have a drink, and waited on them personally. There had been no loud talking, no swearing. A man could have stood out in front of the saloon and not been aware of trouble within.
“I’ve paid twenty dollars to see a fight that wasn’t half as good,” declared the contractor. “Here’s to one cowpuncher that don’t need to shoot his man to win.”
Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon as soon as possible after the toast. Hashknife disliked adulation--and he did not want to drink any more; so they excused themselves and went back to the sheriff’s office, where Sleepy proceeded to tell Forty Dollar about the fight.
“Jist my darned luck!” wailed Forty Dollar. “Here I been layin’ on my miserable back, readin’ ‘Deserted at the Altar,’ while there’s a fight jist across the street. That ain’t no way to treat a friend. And yuh knocked Ed Clayton out! Can’t git it through m’ head, thassall. Bigger’n you are, every way.”
“Don’t know the first thing about fightin’,” declared Sleepy. “Clumsy as a cub bear. Hashknife slapped him in the stummick and took all the fight out of him. Yaller as a dandelion.”
“Um-m-m,” Forty Dollar was not convinced. “I’ve seen him put up a good fight. Well, I’ve allus said that he’d meet his match some of these days. I used to be a fighter m’self, and I know.”
“Did you meet yore match?” asked Sleepy.
“Did I? Say, I met a whole danged box of ’em. What did Harry think of the fight?”
“I kicked him into a front seat,” grinned Sleepy. “I reckon he wanted to referee; but we didn’t need none. When they tackle old Hashknife, there ain’t but one decision to give. He just pets ’em on the chin, thassall.”
“Braggin’ is bad; but lyin’ and braggin’ at the same time is worse,” declared Hashknife. “Yore loop is draggin’.”
“All right,” laughed Sleepy. “If yuh don’t believe me, Forty Dollar--ask Ed Clayton.”
“I’ll take yore word for it.”
“Are you familiar with the 27A brand?” asked Hashknife.
“Me?” Forty seemed amazed. “Say, I’ve been in this country ever since the big trade between the Injuns and the soldiers.”
“What big trade was that?” asked Sleepy innocently.
“Lead f’r lead. What do yuh want to know about the 27A?”
“Where do they brand?”
“Right shoulder. The 7 and the A are connected.”
“Uh-huh,” Hashknife nodded solemnly, and walked to the door. He could see Ed Clayton and Harry Allenby in front of the White Horse saloon, and as he watched them, Clayton drew back his right hand and knocked Harry into the street.
It was not a knockout punch, but it sent Harry rolling into the dust. He clawed his way to his feet and went staggering across the street. Hashknife called Sleepy and Forty Dollar to the door and told them about it. Clayton went back in to the saloon, while Harry sat down on the sidewalk in front of the general store.
“Harry seems to get it from all sides,” observed Forty Dollar. “His luck is runnin’ kinda muddy, this week.”
Harry leaned against a post and seemed content to stay where he was. In a few minutes Pinon Meade came out of the White Horse, got his horse at the hitch-rack and rode out of town toward the 27A. The three men at the sheriff’s office went inside and sat down again. It was hot out there in the street.
Hashknife tilted back against the wall in his chair and made pencil notes on the back of an envelope, while Sleepy and Forty Dollar started an argument as to who won the Boer war.
It was a perfectly good argument, because neither of them knew just what countries had fought the war. Sleepy contended that the Swedes were the winners, and managed to prove it to Forty Dollar’s satisfaction. Several points were proved by Hashknife, who was so engrossed in his own notes that he “yessed” every question.
Just before dark Swan River rode into Moolock, leading a thoroughly tired posse of men. Their long ride had netted them nothing. They had come back past the 27A ranch, where Sam Bass had left the posse. Allenby was discouraged. He asked for Harry and found that Harry had gone home.
Clayton, showing no ill effects from his fight, talked with Allenby, after which he got his horse and rode away with him toward the ranch. Swan River stretched his tired body and swore witheringly at his luck.
“We went plumb to Tecoma,” he said. “It’s like huntin’ for a needle in a strawstack. Didn’t find out a danged thing. I reckon Allenby is all broke up over it; but I can’t help it, if he is.”
“Let’s eat,” suggested Forty Dollar. “There ain’t been much happened around here since yuh left, except that Hashknife had a fight with Clayton, knocked Clayton plumb out; and Clayton hit Harry Allenby later on. Otherwise it’s been Sunday all day.”