Part 7

The man squinted keenly at him, but lowered his eyes, a slight frown on his face. He was putting up a show of thinking. Then:

“I’ve heard the name. Didn’t he git into trouble over there?”

“They say he shipped some stock from here,” said Hashknife, ignoring the question, “and we’re tryin’ to find out if that is the truth.”

The man shook his head, but called to a cowpuncher who was watching one of the games. He was a frowsy, unkempt individual, who had been around there all day. He slouched over to the bar.

“Jud,” said the proprietor, “here’s a man who wants to find out if Bud Daley has shipped any stock from here lately?”

Jud licked his lips and reached for a cigaret-paper.

“Jud kinda has charge of the loadin’ corrals,” explained the proprietor.

“Bud Daley?” Jud seemed to be questioning himself. Then he looked at Hashknife keenly, “Whatcha want to know fer?”

“I’ll trade answers with yuh,” said Hashknife.

“Trade with me?”

“Yeah. You tell me if he has and I’ll tell yuh what I wanted to know for.”

Jud grinned wisely and licked the edge of his cigaret-paper. His eyes shifted to the face of the proprietor and back to Hashknife.

“Suppose I tell yuh I don’t know,” he suggested. “How’d yuh trade on that?”

“By tellin’ yuh it wasn’t none of yore ---- business,” replied Hashknife.

Jud gawped at Hashknife for a moment and flushed angrily.

“Yo’re kinda salty, ain’t yuh?” he queried.

Hashknife laughed with his mouth, but there was no mirth in his steady eyes. Jud fidgeted nervously, ripped a match viciously along the bar and lit his cigaret.

“I’ll buy a drink,” said the proprietor slowly.

Jud whirled on his heel and walked back to the poker-table, ignoring the invitation. The proprietor laughed and set out glasses and a bottle. He did not drink, but lighted a fresh cigar instead.

“This one is on me,” said Hashknife, tossing a dollar on the bar, “I reckon that folks didn’t lie to us when they said that we’d never find out anythin’ in Black Wells.”

He and Sleepy tossed off their drinks and went outside, leaving the dollar on the bar.

“My gosh, that’s awful whisky!” exclaimed Sleepy. “No wonder this town hates itself. Where now?”

“Back to Modoc,” said Hashknife, “I don’t like this place.”

They went back to the corral and began saddling. A moon had just come up over the Modoc hills. Sleepy was fussing with his cinch and looking at the moon. Then he stopped and grasped the saddle with both hands.

The moon was acting queerly. It seemed to advance and recede rapidly, and the queer motion was making Sleepy sea-sick. He looked over at Hashknife, who seemed to be acting strangely. Then a sudden dizziness struck him and he fell backward against the corral fence, where he slumped down in a heap.

It seemed to Sleepy that he had only been on the ground a short time, when he groped for the fence and managed to get back to his feet. The moon was high in the heavens now, and he wondered how it had got up there in such a short time. He was still nauseated, hazy; but the cool night breeze revived him rapidly.

The horses were still there. He crossed the corral, where he found Hashknife leaning against the fence, his head on his hands.

“Say, what in ---- happened?” queried Sleepy painfully.

Hashknife groaned and straightened up. He looked at Sleepy and laughed hoarsely.

“Feel in yore pockets, Sleepy?”

Sleepy did so.

“Anythin’ missin’?” asked Hashknife.

“Well, I’ll be ---- if I ain’t shy about ten dollars!”

“They cleaned me out,” groaned Hashknife. “I’m as clean as a new six-gun barrel.”

“Well, what in ---- is the answer?” demanded Sleepy angrily.

“Them last drinks,” said Hashknife, “they must ’a’ filled ’em full of knockout drops, Sleepy. I’ve been doped before, but I never got all there was in the world in one drink. Waugh!”

“They doped and robbed us?” queried Sleepy.

“That’s the answer.”

“All right.” Sleepy’s voice was harsh with anger. “We’ll go back to that Welcome saloon and take it back with interest. C’mon, Hashknife. I’ll show that bunch of tin-horns somethin’ quaint.”

“Nope.” Hashknife laughed and went back to his horse. “Me and you are goin’ back to Modoc. It’s late.”

“You ain’t goin’ to let that bunch of side-winders get away with all this, are yuh?” demanded Sleepy.

“They didn’t get much.”

Sleepy went to his horse, shook up the saddle and drew up the cinch. He was mad. They rode out of the corral gate and down the street. As they passed the Welcome saloon, Sleepy drew up his horse and peered through the window. There were several men at the bar and among them was the proprietor.

“Hang on to yourself,” advised Hashknife. But he was too late.

Sleepy drew his gun and sent a bullet smashing through the window and into the back-bar. The crowd at the bar fell back in a panic. Another bullet bored through the broken window, splintered the back-bar mirror and played havoc with some bottled goods, which were on display.

A man threw open the door, but slammed it shut quickly, when a bullet buzzed in over his head.

“Yeow! Ye-e-e-ow!” whooped Sleepy. “Dodge, you Black Wells pickpockets!”

Three times more he sent bullets in through the windows, before he set spurs to his horse and went thundering out of Black Wells, riding high in his saddle and stuffing more cartridges into his six-shooter.

Straight out the old Crooked Cañon road they went and into the moonlit hills before they slackened pace.

“I sure gave ’em a receipt for my money,” laughed Sleepy, looking back toward the town, “yo’re too easy, Hashknife. I only hope that bunch of reptiles will be pickin’ glass splinters out of their mangy hides for a month.”

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I dunno that I blame yuh, cowboy.”

“Blame, ----!” snorted Sleepy, “I wish we’d ’a’ gone in there and salivated the whole works. I was shootin’ at the cash register, and I hope I rung up enough to make it worth while. You wanted to come to Black Wells, and I hope you’re satisfied.”

“I’m satisfied,” answered Hashknife. “Perfectly satisfied.”

“You didn’t do no good for anybody.”

“Didn’t I?”

“Well, where in ---- did yuh? You asked questions and got no answer. We got doped and robbed. And you’re satisfied. Brother, it don’t take much to satisfy you, does it? Sometimes, I wonder if you’re just right in the head.”

“My heart is in the right place, Sleepy.”

“Yeah--and I suppose yore liver is accordin’ to the location notice. You’re actin’ as happy as though you done some good there.”

But Hashknife only laughed joyfully, in spite of the fact that his stomach was almost too weak to bear the drag of his heavy belt and gun.

* * * * *

It was breakfast time the next morning at the 76A, when Dug Breed and Charley Morse rode in for breakfast. A rumor that Bud Daley was back in the Lost Pine country had given them eighteen hours of riding, with no results.

Monte Sells, Frank Asher and Brent Allard were eating, but stopped long enough to greet the sheriff and deputy, who sat down at the long table.

“A feller don’t have to strain his eyesight to see that yuh didn’t have much luck, sheriff,” observed Monte.

He winked at the other two cowboys. Dug Breed noted the wink, but did not appreciate the humor of Monte’s observation.

“Not much,” said Breed dryly.

Frank Asher laid down his fork, rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward Breed, as he said--

“Breed, who do you think shot Red Blair?”

The sheriff had a cup of hot coffee at his lips, but he slowly lowered it to the table, his eyes searching the faces of the three men across the table.

“What in ---- was Blair doin’ out there?” he countered.

“What’s that got to do with it?” asked Monte.

“Quite a lot.” The sheriff seemed more at ease. “If we knew what Red Blair was doin’ out there, we might get a line on who shot him.”

Asher grunted and began eating, but Monte took up the discussion.

“What do yuh know about them two punchers who are livin’ at Bud’s place?”

“Not a thing.”

“Did yuh ever think that they might ’ve had a hand in the shootin’ of Red?”

“If you’ll tell me what Red was doin’ out there, I might say.”

Brent Allard got to his feet and shoved back his chair.

“What’s the use of arguin’ about it?” he asked.

“I’m not arguin’ about it,” laughed Breed. “Red will likely tell us what he was doin’ out there, as soon as he is able.”

“The doctor don’t think he’ll get well,” observed Monte. “I was down there last night. Them two punchers told about a lot of shots bein’ fired out there that night. They claim to have found Red after the shootin’ was all over.”

Breed nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I know that’s what they said.”

“Who do yuh reckon done all the shootin’?” queried Allard.

“Didn’t you say that there wasn’t no use arguin’ about it?” asked Breed, grinning. “Don’t ask me who done it, Allard; I didn’t see ’em.”

Breed and Morse finished their breakfast and went on to town, while the three cowboys sat down on the ranch-house porch and rolled fresh cigarets.

“Do yuh know what I think?” asked Monte.

Nobody seemed to care what he thought, but he continued--

“I think that Bud Daley was the one that shot Red.”

“All right,” said Brent Allard. “It’s a free country, Monte. I told yuh before we went there that we was monkeyin’ with dynamite. But Red got a lot of drinks under his belt----”

“He didn’t get any more than the rest of us did,” interrupted Monte.

“I know it. But Red got braver than the rest of us. I told yuh what would happen. Red thought we could frame up a scare for them two jaspers; but yuh see what happened, don’t yuh.”

“Aw-w-w, ----!” snorted Frank Asher. “You can’t make me believe that one of them was guardin’ the place. They didn’t know we was comin’ out there. I’ll betcha that Bud was the one what busted up the party for Red.”

“Here comes Mesa,” said Monte, pointing down the road, where a lone horseman was riding swiftly toward the ranch.

They watched him ride in at the gate and come straight to the porch, where he dismounted and joined them.

“Red died a couple of hours ago,” he stated wearily. “He never got conscious.”

Monte swore softly and rolled a fresh cigaret, while Mesa Caldwell helped himself to Monte’s tobacco.

“Lavelle thinks it was Bud Daley that done it,” said Mesa. “I was talkin’ to Lavelle a while ago. Met the sheriff and his deputy and told them about it. I reckon most everybody thinks that Bud done the shootin’.”

“That’s where yo’re all wrong,” insisted Brent Allard. “If you ---- fools would only believe me, when I tell yuh that them two fellers, Hartley and Stevens, are----”

“Aw, stop croakin’, Brent!” wailed Monte. “My ----, yo’re always lookin’ for spooks! If yo’re so scared of them two, why don’tcha pull yore freight out of here?”

“Gimme my time, then,” said Brent quickly. “I’m plumb willin’ to go, Monte. I tell yuh, there ain’t nothin’ but trouble, where yuh find them two snake-hunters. I remember the time they----”

“Aw, hire a hall!” exploded Frank Asher, and Allard subsided, growling and shaking his head.

“So Lavelle thinks that Bud Daley shot Red, does he?” queried Monte. “I wonder if Lavelle thinks that his opinions are worth a ---- of a lot? They’d have a sweet time convicting Bud of it, wouldn’t they? Personally, I think the least said about it the better it will be for all of us. Bud’s likely got a horse and a gun by this time, and he’ll be a hard jigger to corral.”

“We’ll likely find out,” grinned Mesa knowingly. “Lavelle is goin’ to turn us all over to the sheriff--to assist him in gettin’ Bud Daley.”

The three cowboys stared at Mesa, who seemed to enjoy their silent expressions.

“Mesa Caldwell, are you lyin’ to us?” demanded Monte.

“Cross m’ heart and hope t’ die, if I am. The county is offerin’ two thousand for Bud, dead or alive, and the bank antes a thousand. As soon as our friend Dug Breed gets back to Modoc, Lavelle is goin’ to offer him our services.”

“Well,” said Brent Allard slowly, “Cleve Lavelle and Dug Breed can go plumb to ----, as far as I’m concerned.”

Allard set his jaw tightly and hitched up his belt.

“Scared?” queried Mesa, grinning.

“Yeah, I’m scared.”

“Of one man?”

“No, not of one man. Bud Daley don’t count. I liked Bud and I still like him. Them two punchers ----”

“Aw, they’ve got yore goat,” laughed Monte, and the other two punchers joined in the laugh at Allard’s fears.

“All right,” Allard was not interested in their sarcasm.

He knew what he knew, and their joking would not change him.

“They ain’t got nothin’ to do with us,” pointed out Mesa.

“Not until we try to put the deadwood on Bud Daley,” agreed Allard. “They’re friends of Bud Daley, that’s a cinch; and I don’t intend to give them a chance to work agin’ me. I’ll take my pay and hunt for another range--it’s safer.”

“You won’t find a safer place to work than for Lavelle.” Thus Monte, who did not want to lose Allard.

“Mebbe we better go over and have a talk with these bad _hombres_,” suggested Mesa, laughing. “Would they recognize yuh, Brent?”

Allard squinted at Mesa, but did not answer. He was not going to commit himself.

“We could ride over there,” continued Mesa. “It would be four against two. It wouldn’t be hard to start somethin’, especially if they recognized you and made some remarks.”

“Any ti-i-ime,” drawled Allard, shaking his head quickly. “Not for mine, Mesa. You fellers trot right along and start somethin’ with them two; but leave me here. Mebbe they’d recognize me. Hartley, the tall one, ain’t got a bad memory for faces. And--” Allard squinted seriously and rubbed his stubbled chin--“I’d like to bet that he knows more about why and how things have been done since he showed up than the men that done ’em.”

“Yo’re crazy,” declared Monte.

“Jist like a li’l fox,” grinned Allard. “I love my own hide so much that I’ll go into a hole any old time that the runnin’ ain’t good.”

“Well,” observed Mesa, “mebbe yo’re right, Brent. If yuh feel like yo’re runnin’ into bad luck, it’s a good thing to lay off the game for a while. Talkin’ about luck, Lavelle got a trimmin’ at stud agin’ last night. Sody Slavin and a gambler from Burke sure cleaned out Lavelle.

“Sody went in on a shoe-string and came out with enough to buy a train-load of cows. Lavelle almost lost his shirt. That bird from Burke and Sody took turns throwin’ the hooks into Lavelle, and I’m tellin’ you that the Rest Ye All is danged badly bent.”

“They must ’a’ been loaded with luck,” observed Monte. “Lavelle is usually awful lucky at his own game. But he’s been gettin’ hit hard lately. I wonder if his luck is slippin’?”

“Sure it’s slippin’!” Brent Allard spoke with conviction. “The minute I heard them two names, I knew----”

“You poor fool!” Monte swung around angrily. “What in ---- would they have to do with Cleve Lavelle’s luck? You talk like a sick buzzard, Brent.”

“He’s sure superstitious,” laughed Mesa.

But there was a note of uneasiness in Mesa’s voice. He, too, believed in omens.

“I dunno,” continued Mesa. “Somethin’ is wrong with Lavelle’s luck--and Lavelle knows it, too. He’s sour-balled, I tell yuh. I watched him playin’, and he was as nervous as an old woman. Kept kinda lickin’ his lips. He got sore at Sody Slavin, ’cause Sody kidded him about his bad luck. Why, I even seen Lavelle kinda countin’ his chips.”

“Countin’ his chips, eh?” grunted Allard. “That’s a jinx.”

“Mebbe,” said Monte thoughtfully, “he was workin’ one jinx against the other. Sometimes that works.”

Which proved that Monte Sells was not proof against superstition. Brent Allard laughed at Monte’s opinion and stalked off the porch toward the bunk-house.

“---- him!” muttered Monte, after Allard had passed out of earshot. “Him and his ---- superstition make me tired. We’ll all be jumpin’ around with bad nerves if he don’t quit it.”

“Well, let’s go and take a look at these two pelicans,” suggested Mesa. “We don’t have to choose ’em, if we don’t want to.”

* * * * *

And while the boys of the 76A argued about them, Hashknife and Sleepy rode in at the JM ranch in time for breakfast. Sody Slavin, with wealth in every pocket, greeted them like long-lost brothers and insisted on telling them how he had helped clean out Cleve Lavelle.

“It was like takin’ straw away from the ‘crippled cow,’” explained Sody. “I seen him quit cold, when he had me beat in sight. And I went in with ten dollars. Man, I never seen a game like that. I’d take a wallop at Lavelle and then that gambler from Burke would paste him for a bushel of chips. We sure seesawed him out of a lot of _dinero_.”

“Yuh ought to have a little compassion,” said Hashknife.

“Not me.” Sody shook his head. “I hookum cow, when I git m’ feet rammed into a lucky spot. Lavelle has cleaned me plenty of times, but I’m more’n even with him this time.”

Ma Miller welcomed them to breakfast and demanded the latest news from Black Wells.

“I used to know Black Wells pretty well,” she laughed. “When we used to trail our cows over there, I handled the chuck-wagon.”

“And there never was a puncher late for a meal,” declared Uncle Jimmy proudly. “Ma sure can make food. Black Wells ain’t much, is she?”

“Not much,” grinned Hashknife. “This here food don’t look like what they feed yuh over there.”

“They didn’t like us,” grinned Sleepy, balancing a whole fried egg on his knife-blade. “They don’t fuss over strangers.”

Sody grinned encouragingly. He felt that something worth while had happened over there and wondered how they had found out that Black Wells did not like them. Mrs. Daley came from up-stairs and smiled a welcome to them. She sat down at the table and waited for the conversation to resume.

“Do any of you folks know a puncher over there named Jud? He’s kinda pointed-faced, with squirrel-teeth, and looks like he never lived in a country where there was soap.”

“That’s Jud Mahley,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I betcha that’s who yuh mean. His eyes are awful close together--kinda makes him look like he’s cross-eyed.”

“That’s him,” grinned Hashknife. “And there’s the proprietor of the Welcome saloon. He’s----”

“That’s ‘Bumpy’ Dickenson,” laughed Sody. “Got a bald head, with bumps all over it, ain’t he?”

“That’s the whip-poor-will,” admitted Sleepy. “Nice sort of a gent.”

“With a reverse-English!” exploded Uncle Jimmy. “There ain’t a bigger crook in the world than Dickenson.”

“Unless it’s Jud Mahley,” amended Sody. “He ain’t only crooked, but he’s lucky.”

“Sody shot at him once,” grinned Uncle Jimmy, “and Sody has been sore ever since.”

“Danged right!” snorted Sody. “I’d bet forty dollars agin’ a cigaret paper that it was Jud Mahley. He was usin’ a runnin’-iron on a calf, back toward Crooked Cañon. I had a .45-70 and a lot of them ---- D. C. ca’tridges that got into this country, because they was cheap.

“Anyway, I got a good runnin’ shot at that jasper, and I’d ’a’ handed him a harp; but the head blowed off the shell, knocked ---- out of my Winchester, and I couldn’t see to spit for twenty minutes.”

Hashknife laughed at Sody’s disgusted expression. He knew just how Sody had felt at the time.

“So Jud used to be over here, eh?” he asked.

“Yeah, he sure did,” grunted Sody. “He worked around for the different outfits. Thinks he’s a gun-man. He sure rattled his hocks out of the Modoc hills.”

“Aw, he comes back once in a while,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I seen him in Modoc a few weeks ago.”

“And yuh didn’t tell me?” Sody grew indignant to think that this information had been withheld.

“You still want to kill him?” asked Hashknife.

“Yo’re ---- right I do!”

“Well, you’ve got my permission,” laughed Sleepy. “But you’ve got to beat me to him. I’ve picked him, cowboy.”

They got up from the breakfast table and moved into the living-room, while Ma and Mrs. Daley cleared away the breakfast table.

Uncle Jimmy signaled Hashknife to follow him outside, and they walked to the far corner of the porch.

“Did yuh find out anythin’?” queried Uncle Jimmy.

Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“Nothin’ that would show who sold them cows of Bud’s. They’re a tight-lipped outfit over there, Uncle Jimmy.”

“----, yes,” thoughtfully, “I dunno whether we’ll ever find out the truth of it all. I hate to think that Bud is guilty.”

“I wish to gosh I could have a talk with Bud.”

“He wouldn’t talk when he was in jail, Hartley.”

“He’d talk to me or I’d knock ---- out of him.”

“Uh-huh.” Uncle Jimmy seemed a bit dubious of Hashknife’s ability to do this.

“I’ve got a hunch that Bud’s cows were shipped out of Black Wells,” said Hashknife, “but that’s as far as my hunch goes. This Jud Mahley has charge of the loadin’ corrals over there, but he won’t talk. Have yuh heard how that Red Blair is gettin’ along?”

Uncle Jimmy shook his head. He was not interested in Blair.

“That was kind of a funny deal,” observed Hashknife. “Do yuh suppose Bud had anythin’ to do with it?”

“I don’t think so.” Uncle Jimmy sucked thoughtfully on his old pipe. “Red Blair and Bud never had any trouble that I know about.”

“Blair works for Lavelle, don’t he? Who else is in that outfit?”

Uncle Jimmy named over the other cowboys of the 76A. Hashknife listened thoughtfully, squinting his eyes away from the smoke of his cigaret.

“Brent Allard, eh? Kinda sad-lookin’ jasper, with a lock of hair that’s always in his eyes?”

“Yeah.” Uncle Jimmy looked up quickly. “You know him?”

Hashknife grinned softly and threw away his cigaret.

“I know a Brent Allard, and I’d like to see if this is the one. Does Bud Daley know Jud Mahley?”

“Yeah, he knows him. Everybody around here knows Jud. There’s a fat reward out for Bud. The country offers two thousand dollars, dead or alive; and the bank says he’s worth a thousand to them.”

“That’s a lot of money, Uncle Jimmy.” The old man nodded slowly.

“Yeah--dead or alive,” he said sadly and jerked his head toward the door. “I ain’t told May. She’s got enough to worry about without knowin’ that the law is willin’ to pay for Bud’s carcass. I sure feel sorry for her, Hartley. She’s jist a kid.

“Her and Bud was jist gittin’ a good start, when he got hit with all the troubles in the world. I got sore as ---- at Bud, ’cause he wouldn’t talk to nobody. I went down there and argued with him, but he didn’t seem to give a ---- what they done to him. Why, that ---- fool seemed pleased when the judge sentenced him.”

Uncle Jimmy snorted his disgust and knocked the dottle from his pipe against his spurred heel.

“Wouldn’t even talk to May,” added Hashknife.

“Not to anybody. It looked bad to the jury. What could a lawyer do in a case like that? They’ve got to know whether yo’re guilty or not, before they can prove that yuh ain’t. But they never did know about Bud.”

“That’s the one big question,” observed Hashknife. “If we only knew why he wouldn’t talk.”

* * * * *

Hashknife did not get a chance to talk with Mrs. Daley before they left the JM ranch. He and Sleepy had ridden all night and were too weary to think of much except a chance to stretch out and sleep.

They went back to Bud’s ranch-house, stabled and fed their horses and slept until mid-afternoon. Bud had cleaned out their food supply, which had not been replenished; so they decided to go to Modoc and eat.

At the restaurant they heard that Red Blair was dead, but it did not seem to have excited the town greatly. They met the sheriff, who seemed disposed to talk, or rather to ask questions; so they got away from him as gently as possible and went over to the Rest Ye All.

Lavelle was behind the bar, talking to the bartender, but turned as they came up. He squinted at them closely and smiled as he placed a bottle and glasses on the bar.

“We’ll have some see-gars,” said Hashknife, shoving the bottle aside and leaning against the bar.

“That stuff is ten years old,” stated Lavelle.

“Let her live to a ripe old age,” grinned Hashknife. “We got hold of some bad liquor over at Black Wells, and it kinda cured us of the drink habit. A shot of that stuff is the best temperance lecture I ever attended.”