Part 9

The dealer nodded indifferently and went back to his game. Lavelle went to the roulette and studied the play. Men were going in on dollar bets and coming away with a hatful of coins.

He walked over to a draw-poker table and sized up the chips in front of the different players, estimating swiftly. The dealer looked up at him inquiringly, but Lavelle walked away and went to the bar. There was nothing he could do. To close the games would be fatal to his prestige. Men would say that he was a quitter.

Down deep in his heart he wanted to quit, because he knew that he had lost his luck.

Sody Slavin and Uncle Jimmy Miller came in, but did not play. Lavelle knew that Sody had taken a big roll of money out of the place the night before. Other cowboys came rollicking in and added to the noise and smoke of the place. Lavelle turned to the bartender and beckoned him away from the end of the bar, where he was talking to Sody Slavin.

“If anybody wants to see me, I’ll be at my room in the hotel.”

The bartender nodded.

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

* * * * *

As Lavelle turned toward the door he came face to face with Jud Mahley. The Black Wells cowpuncher paid no attention to Lavelle, but slouched up to the bar and ordered a drink of whisky.

Lavelle studied him from the rear, a look of half-disgust on his face, which he could not conceal. Jud gulped his liquor and turned around, as Lavelle moved up closer to him.

“Hello, Mahley,” Lavelle spoke softly.

Mahley’s ferret-like eyes shifted quickly around the room, as he returned the greeting.

“What do you know?” queried Lavelle.

“Not a ---- thing.”

“Not a thing, eh?”

Mahley shook his head. A couple of cowboys had come in close to them and ordered their drinks. Mahley moved aside, drawing his slouchy sombrero farther down over his eyes.

“Couple of fellers come out to Black Wells,” he said to Lavelle. “They didn’t like the liquor very well, so they shot the winder out of the Welcome saloon and smashed the mirror of the back-bar. That’s all the news.”

“Who was they?”

One of the cowboys turned his head and looked at Mahley.

“I dunno.”

Mahley turned away, as if he did not care to talk about it. The cowboys laughed and went back toward the gambling-room. Sody and Uncle Jimmy came toward the bar, laughing over some incident of the gambling, and Sody moved in beside Mahley.

Lavelle knew of the enmity between Sody and Jud Mahley, and tried to flash a signal to Mahley; but the signal was lost upon every one, except Sody, who saw the action in the mirror.

Quickly he turned his head and looked at the profile of the bad-man from Black Wells. Sody did not believe in arguments. With a sideswipe of his big left hand he caught Mahley a slap full in the nose and mouth.

The sound of the blow could be heard all over the house, but was of such a nature that it did little more than sting and partly daze Mahley. He struck his shoulders against the bar and fairly rebounded, his hat flying over the bar and both hands grasping for a support.

For an instant he seemed incapable of action, but instinct caused him to reach for his holstered gun. Sody grunted with glee, swung his right foot in an arc, catching Mahley’s legs just behind the ankles and kicked his feet from under him before his hand had quite gripped the butt of his gun.

The shock of Mahley’s downfall shook the Rest Ye All and also took all the fight out of Mahley. He sat on the floor, goggling around, while Sody swiftly disarmed him and tossed the gun over the bar.

“What’s the big idea?” queried Lavelle angrily. “What right ----?”

“You backin’ this scorpion?” asked Sody, pointing at Mahley.

“No, I’m not. But I don’t see----”

“You try and see enough to mind your own business, Lavelle.”

Lavelle stepped aside while Mahley got slowly to his feet, looking around as if wondering what had happened to him. Then he got a good look at Sody Slavin, and his face reddened with anger.

“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” he muttered.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to be showin’ up around here,” said Sody. “If I wasn’t tender-hearted I’d unwind you, Mahley. And if you show up here agin, I’ll jist about do that. Now you git off the Modoc range and stay off, you brand-buster.”

Mahley’s right hand felt of the empty holster, and his eyes squinted almost shut. He blinked his little eyes angrily and started to say something, but changed his mind.

“You ain’t goin’ fast enough to suit me,” said Sody. “If I was you I’d be halfway to Black Wells by this time.”

“Aw right.”

Mahley turned toward the door, and Sody stared after him. Mahley appeared to be perfectly willing to leave; but at the door he drew a six-shooter from inside his dirty flannel shirt bosom and whirled on Sody.

“---- you, I’ll show you!” he snarled, half-sobbing with wrath, as he threw down on Sody.

But before he could pull the trigger a man dived through the doorway into him, and he went staggering sideways, the bullet tearing along the wall.

The man who had knocked him sidewise fell to his knees from the rush, leaving Mahley still able to recover for another shot; but another man came through right behind him and was into Mahley with both hands swinging like pistons.

The first man was Hashknife Hartley, the second Sleepy Stevens. Neither man said a word. Hashknife got to his feet in time to see Mahley sway forward and catch one of Sleepy’s punches flush on the chin. Then Mr. Mahley of Black Wells folded up like an old shirt and went to sleep. And, without any lost motions, Sleepy picked him up in his arms, staggered to the doorway and threw him bodily into the street.

Sody’s altercation with Mahley had drawn quite a crowd, and now they stood open-mouthed and stared at Hashknife and Sleepy. Hashknife dusted off his knees with his hands and grinned slowly. Lavelle had not moved, but now he looked keenly at Hashknife before turning away.

“That was kinda complete,” remarked Sody with a sigh of relief. “I’m sure much obliged, gents. You came just in time. Mebbe he ain’t a very good shot, but I’m big enough for anybody to hit at that distance.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” grinned Sleepy, blowing on his sore knuckles. “I’ve been honin’ for a crack at that horse hobo. And I sure got my fill. He rattled like a handful of poker-chips when I hit him on the chin, didn’t he?”

“Mebbe we better take another look at him,” suggested Sody. “Yuh never can tell how many more guns he’s got with him.”

They filed outside and looked around, but there was no sign of Jud Mahley. In the space of two minutes he had recovered from his knockout and had faded from view.

“And I’ll betcha he never even stopped to bother with a horse,” laughed Sody. “He knows now that Modoc ain’t healthy. Let’s all go and have a drink.”

They went back to the bar. The curious crowd had gone back to the gambling-room, leaving only the bartender to applaud them.

“You sure knocked on his gate,” he told Sleepy, grinning. “I ain’t never seen anybody nail ’em sweeter.”

“Wasn’t he talkin’ to Lavelle?” asked Sody.

“Yeah, he was,” said the bartender. “Most everybody around here knows Jud Mahley. He’s kinda tough, I’d say.”

“Well, he got softened up quite a little,” laughed Sody. “Let’s have another little snifter and then help break Lavelle. Everybody wins from the house these days.”

They all trooped into the gambling-room and began laying small bets on the roulette. There was no sign of Lavelle, but there was plenty of talk about the ill-luck of the house. Neither Hashknife nor Sleepy felt inclined to gamble heavily, but preferred to stand by and watch the others buck the games.

Uncle Jimmy tried to get Sody to break away and go home; but the fat cowboy was adding to his bank-roll and did not want to leave any easy money behind.

* * * * *

Time passes swiftly when stakes are running high, and it was about two hours after the incident with Jud Mahley when Hashknife, Sleepy and Uncle Jimmy went back into the barroom. They had about decided to ride home and were going to take a farewell drink, when Dug Breed staggered through the doorway.

His face was streaked with blood, as if something with many claws had scratched him, and he was disheveled and covered with dirt. He spat dryly and reached for a glass of whisky which Uncle Jimmy had poured out for his own use. Gulping the liquor at one swallow, he leaned against the bar and swore hoarsely.

“Morse is dead,” he croaked, shaking his head painfully. “He never knowed what hit him. I--I----” he felt tenderly of his face--“I reckon I got the drag of the load.”

“You sure look like you got somethin’,” admitted Hashknife.

“Who killed Morse?” queried Sody wonderingly.

“---- only knows. His horse ran away, and mine won’t pack double, so I had to leave him there in the road. Somebody bushwhacked us with a shotgun. I was a little behind Charley. Look at my face!”

“Where did it happen?” asked Hashknife.

“Between here and Bud Daley’s ranch just a little beyond where the JM road forks. I couldn’t bring Charley in. But he’s dead; so it won’t matter to him. I’ve got to find a doctor and take him out there. Lucky it didn’t hit me in the eyes.”

He turned and staggered outside. The word ran swiftly through the gambling-room and the crowd quit playing to find out the particulars. Some one went to Lavelle’s office at the rear and told him what had happened. He added his voice to the rest, and hurried down to the doctor’s house to get further particulars from Breed.

No one seemed to be able to figure out just why the sheriff and his deputy should have been ambushed--unless Bud Daley had done it. Hashknife smiled grimly at their conjectures. He knew what had happened or thought he did.

Jud Mahley, smarting over what had happened to him, had secured a shotgun and planted himself beside the road. In the darkness he had mistaken Breed and Morse for Hashknife and Sleepy, never expecting any one except them to ride over that road that night.

And Sleepy had arrived at the same conclusions. He drew Hashknife aside.

“Cowboy, she’s a good thing we didn’t get there first,” he said softly.

Hashknife nodded and they walked outside to their horses.

“Breed and Morse were goin’ to the ranch,” declared Sleepy. “They knowed we were here; so they thought it might be a good chance to look for Bud.”

“And some of them danged fools are blamin’ poor Bud,” said Hashknife disgustedly. “We know what happened, but we’ll never be able to prove it. Still--” he swung into his saddle--“never is a mighty long time, Sleepy.”

The murder of Charley Morse shocked even the sensibilities of Modoc. It was so uncalled for, so fiendish, that those who were hard-bitten enough to overlook an ordinary killing longed for a chance to get their hands on the murderer.

Morse had never been popular, but he had never been unpopular. He was soft-spoken, reliable, minded his own business and was an efficient officer. The charge of bird-shot had scattered enough merely to rake Breed’s features and drill some little holes in his neck and shoulders.

The shooting had been done at fairly close range, and, from the extent of Morse’s wounds, the assassin had fired both barrels. Hashknife and Sleepy had ridden back to town fairly early in the morning and had a talk with Breed, whose face was plentifully decorated with bits of court-plaster.

Breed was frankly worried. It looked to him as if some one was trying to put the sheriff’s office out of commission. But he did not have the slightest idea of who had killed Morse. Only fate had put Morse ahead of him that night. A loose cinch, which he had stopped to tighten, caused him to be riding far enough behind to have escaped the force of the shotgun load.

“You were lookin’ for Bud, wasn’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

Breed rubbed his speckled face and nodded slowly.

“Yeah, we was, Hartley. I knowed that you and Stevens were here in town; so we rode out there, intendin’ to take a good look at Bud’s ranch. You foxed us the other day, but I ain’t holdin’ no hard feelin’s toward yuh.

“Bud and me never did hitch. He’s a wild sort of a jigger, and just a kid; but he ain’t a feller that yuh can dislike a lot. It ain’t me that wants him, Hartley; it’s what I represent. The law says he’s guilty--not me.”

Hashknife held out his hand to Breed, who took it wonderingly.

“Yo’re kinda human, Breed,” said Hashknife warmly. “Mebbe I’ve misunderstood yuh all the time. Let’s set down and have a talk.”

Hashknife indicated a spot on the board sidewalk and they sat down together, where no one would overhear them.

“You don’t think that Bud Daley killed Morse, do yuh?” queried Hashknife.

Breed shook his head quickly.

“No, I don’t, Hartley. Bud Daley ain’t that kind. Bud would shoot, if he had to, but not from ambush with a shotgun.”

Hashknife glanced across the street. Uncle Jimmy and Ma Miller had driven in and were tying their team to a hitch-rack. The hitch-racks were filling up fast. Hashknife grinned and turned to Breed.

“Saturday is always the same in all ranch countries,” he observed. “Everybody comes in to trade and tell lies. If it wasn’t for Saturday, I’d live in a city.”

Breed grinned and nodded. Lavelle came out of the Rest Ye All, spoke to Uncle Jimmy and Ma for several moments and walked down the street. Hashknife watched him keenly and turned to Breed.

“Funny about Lavelle’s luck, ain’t it, Breed?”

Breed glanced after Lavelle and nodded slowly, a slight frown on his face.

“Do you believe in luck, Hartley?”

“Yeah.” Hashknife nodded slowly. “I believe in it, sheriff; but not the way Lavelle does. He’s superstitious; believes in signs and charms, I hear.”

“Yeah, he does.” Breed laughed shortly. “Most gamblers do.”

“They’re poor sticks to tie to,” declared Hashknife. Breed looked up quickly.

“What do yuh mean, Hartley?”

“Lavelle got you into the sheriff’s office, didn’t he?”

Breed’s face flushed hotly, but he shut his lips tight.

“He thinks the office belongs to him,” continued Hashknife easily. “I know how you feel about it.” Hashknife dug his heel into the dirt and squinted thoughtfully, as he said--

“Breed, did you ever wonder what became of Bud’s cattle?”

“Yeah; but I never figured it out. Bud could ’a’ bunched ’em and taken ’em to Black Wells. Lavelle thinks that Bud done it. Yuh see, Bud owes Lavelle five thousand dollars, and Lavelle thinks that Bud sold his cattle and lied about ’em bein’ stole; so he won’t have to pay it back.”

“And who do yuh think them two men were that took Bud away from you that night on the train?”

Breed shut his lips tight and shook his head. Lavelle was riding up the street from the livery-stable. He had changed to boots and chaps, and sat his horse as easily as any cowpuncher in the country. He nodded to Hashknife and Breed, as he passed them and rode out of town.

“I don’t know who them two men were,” said Breed thoughtfully. “But it strikes me that the hold-up was just a blind to stop the train and release Bud.”

Hashknife laughed and began rolling a cigaret. Breed looked curiously at him and said--

“Does it strike you funny?”

“It’s so danged mixed up, Breed. If it was only a blind, why did they dynamite that safe in the express car? Their intentions were good, don’tcha think?”

“I dunno. Still, it looks like it might ’a’ been just--well, I dunno watcha call it. I can’t imagine who the robbers were.”

Breed shook his head seriously, but turned to Hashknife with a grin.

“That jasper that made me unlock Bud’s handcuffs was a queer jigger. When he found that you didn’t have any money, he gave yuh some.”

“Cold-blooded bluff,” said Hashknife, grinning. “Gentleman bandit stuff. Wanted to show that he was plumb salty, thasall. Well, we don’t know much, do we, Breed? Now let’s talk about the bank robbery.

“That happened late at night. Somebody knowed that the cashier was workin’ late; so he must ’a’ waited for the cashier to come out of the door. Then he jist about shoved a gun in his ribs and hurried him back inside.

“Mebbe he made the cashier open the vault. Then he pops the cashier over the head with his gun. He thinks that the cashier is cool for a spell; so he proceeds to loot the vault. About that time, the cashier wakes up and makes a break for the door.

“This robber gent takes a shot at the cashier, misses him, busts the window and kills Sody’s bronc. The next shot gets the cashier dead center. Then this man takes his plunder and makes a getaway. Ain’t that about the ticket?”

“That’s the way I see it,” nodded Breed, “I found a rosette off Bud’s chaps on the vault floor, kinda mingled with some loose money. I’d know that rosette anywhere. At daylight, I beat it for the ranch and found Bud jist pullin’ in. He’s sure been ridin’ a lot that night, and he won’t tell where. His wife don’t know, except that he ain’t been home.

“We do know that Bud got kinda drunk that evenin’ and said he was goin’ home. He was kinda raisin’ thunder around here--him and Sody Slavin and Dinah Blewette. Dinah and Short-Horn Adams had a fight, and Dinah got licked. Then Sody proceeds to lick Short-Horn--or to fix him so Dinah can lick him--which he does to the queen’s taste. But that was long after Bud disappeared.”

“And Bud needed the money, didn’t he?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. He tried to borrow more from Lavelle that evenin’, but didn’t get it. I don’t blame Lavelle. Bud wanted me to try and find his cows; but I was convinced that he’d sold the ---- things; so I got mad at him for askin’ me to hunt for ’em. If Bud shot Charley Morse----”

“He didn’t,” declared Hashknife. “He couldn’t. You fellers shot Bud through the leg and he can’t walk.”

“Thasso?” Breed rubbed his chin and grinned at Hashknife.

“Yeah, that’s so, Breed. That’s an alibi for Bud. I know where Bud is right now, but I’m not goin’ to tell you.”

“I could arrest you for harborin’ a criminal, Hartley.”

“Hop to it,” laughed Hashknife.

Breed frowned reflectively. He knew that Hashknife would not tell, and somehow he did not blame him. There was something about the tall, sad-faced cowpuncher that made Breed feel willing to tell him everything he knew.

“Hartley,” he asked, “are you a detective?”

“No. I’ve done things that a detective might ’a’ done; but never wore a badge. Didja ever notice that my nose is kinder long and sharp on the end? Breed, I was born to stick my nose into other people’s business. I can’t help it.

“Sleepy Stevens is my pet pessimist. Any old time I gets to feelin’ real smart, he’s there to hang crape on my soul. I need him. Cattle-ranges get sick, don’tcha know it? Yeah, they do. I reckon the cities get sick, too; but I don’t _sabe_ their disease. We’re jist cowpunchers, Breed--me and Sleepy--but fate has made us a couple of medicine-men of the cow-country.”

“Medicine-men?” queried Breed.

“Yeah--medicine-men, thasall.”

Breed smiled and got to his feet as he said:

“All right, Hartley; Modoc needs somethin’ in that line. I’m jist a sheriff. Nobody ever gave me credit for havin’ brains. They’re sayin’ that I ought to find the men who robbed that train; find the man who killed Findlay and find Bud Daley. Now I’ve lost my deputy and got shot in the face with a scatter-gun. I reckon I’ve got a job on my hands.”

“Like the Irishman said--single misfortunes seldom come alone,” laughed Hashknife. “You forgot to mention Red Blair.”

Breed looked quickly, suspiciously at Hashknife; but the tall cowpuncher was looking at Brent Allard, who was just riding past them, heading toward the hitch-rack beside the post office. Allard waved at them, and Hashknife nodded.

“We’ll add Red Blair to the total,” said Breed.

Hashknife looked up quickly and nodded.

“One more won’t hurt.”

Breed crossed toward the Rest Ye All, and Hashknife turned and sauntered down toward the post office, where Brent Allard was trying to tie a half-broken broncho to the rack. It was a mean-looking, glass-eyed gray with a snaky head and ears that seemed to be pinned down.

* * * * *

Allard had passed inside the post office. Hashknife leaned against the corner and studied the animal. In a few minutes Allard came out, with a bundle of mail under his arm. He grinned at Hashknife, as he stuffed the mail into his coat-pockets.

“I seen yuh talkin’ with the sheriff,” he grinned. “By grab, I didn’t think he’d ever speak to yuh, after the way yuh fooled him in the blind cañon.”

“Aw, we’re good friends,” laughed Hashknife.

“Uh-huh,” Allard glanced toward the saloon and back at Hashknife. “Well, he’s got a little sense, anyway.”

“That’s a plumb forked-lookin’ bronc yo’re ridin’,” observed Hashknife.

“That thing?” Allard’s voice was filled with contempt. “Forked? Say,” Allard laughed, “that ---- bunch of coiled springs never knows when to quit bouncin’. It’s about seven miles from here to the ranch, I reckon. Well, that bronc jist went seven miles high. Mebbe it went a little higher than it did long, ’cause there was times that we stuck to the same landin’ spot for quite a spell.”

“That’s a ---- of a thing to ride in after mail,” laughed Hashknife.

Allard laughed and shoved the animal away from the rack, so he could untie the rope.

“That’s what Monte said. But I told him there was so ---- much bushwhackin’ goin’ on these days that I wanted to ride somethin’ that would be awful hard to hit--even with a shotgun.”

“Is Lavelle out at the ranch, Allard?”

“Naw. He don’t come out much. Well, I’ve got to git ready to hammer this jughead out of town.”

The gray whirled wickedly, but Allard cramped its head back against its shoulder and snapped into the saddle. For a moment there was a blur of whirling horse and man; then the horse went high in a lunging pitch that almost unseated Allard, and sent a shower of mail from both his coat pockets.

Swiftly the gray changed ends, its head seemingly locked between its front feet, but Allard stuck like a burr. Into the street they went and the gray broke into a run, which took them out of town, like the fading of a motion picture on the screen.

Hashknife gathered up the mail from the dust and started into the post office, but a glance at one of the dusty envelopes caused him to flash a quick glance around as he swiftly slid it inside his shirt.

He walked into the post office and told the postmaster what had happened.

“I’ll put it back,” grinned the old man, “I don’t reckon it’s perishable. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Hashknife laughed with the old man and went outside. Sleepy and Sody had seen the bucking horse, and now they came across the street. They had imbibed several drinks and insisted on Hashknife joining them, but Hashknife was not in the mood.

Uncle Jimmy and Ma Miller came out of a store, and Hashknife got rid of Sleepy and Sody by hailing them.

“C’mon, Sleepy,” urged Sody. “If Ma smells liquor on me, she’ll gimme ---- She always tells me a story about a feller who got all stunted to ---- from whisky. Pers’nally I ain’t scared of not growin’ any more. C’mon.”

Hashknife joined the old folks and asked where Mrs. Daley was.

“Oh, May stayed home,” explained Ma. “She didn’t have nothin’ to buy, and she naturally don’t like to talk to folks. She kinda feels that they’re sayin’ things about her. You know how it’d be.”

“That--and other reasons,” grinned Uncle Jimmy.

Hashknife nodded.

“You try and don’t talk too much,” warned Ma.

“I ain’t said nothin’, have I?” demanded Uncle Jimmy.

“Then don’t repeat it,” said Ma, and then to Hashknife:

“Are yuh comin’ out soon? Come out and eat, can’tcha. My gosh, you’ll ruin yore stummicks eatin’ city food down here.”

“We’ll be out real soon,” declared Hashknife. “Mebbe we’ll be out tonight.”

“You just do that,” urged Ma. “I’ll set two extra places.”

Hashknife laughed and went over to the hitch-rack. Sody and Sleepy had disappeared. Hashknife hesitated for several minutes, but decided to let Sleepy go ahead and have a good time. He mounted his horse and rode out of town toward the ranch.