Part 7
“Well, she don’t tell him what’s the matter; so he follers her into the house, tryin’ to find out. Ain’t a man in love a awful ---- fool. I’m just about makin’ up my mind to stay single, I’ll tell yuh that. Gloom? Whooee!”
Hashknife and Sleepy laughed at Harmony’s disgusted expression. Cliff had awoke and left the bunkhouse ahead of them, and they were curious to know about his reception.
“How’s Dad Parker?” asked Hashknife softly.
“Him?” Harmony spat explosively and hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his overalls. “Well, sir, I dunno. I like the old man. I’ve been with him quite a while, and I thought I knew him kinda well.” Harmony shook his head sadly, “I don’t know him a-tall.”
“Of course he feels bad about Cliff. It’s plumb natural for a pa to feel bad when his offspring de-parts from the strait and narrer and goes bumpety-bump toward ----; but if I ever git married and have a son that gits bogged down, I’ll spit on my hands, load up the old six-gun and find out who in ---- threw the switch on him--and not read any Bible!
“Now, I ain’t sayin’ that the Bible ain’t good readin’, yuh understand. It’s jist like a cook-book or an almanac--all right for what it’s intended--but in a case like this, action speaks a ---- sight stronger than printed words. Now, if you jaspers want to eat--say so. I’ll throw a flock of ham and aigs together for yuh in a minute, and I’m the best cook between here and there, but I ain’t cookin’ for somebody to sigh over.”
“About four eggs for me, Harmony,” said Hashknife, “and not more than that many for Sleepy. And if yuh cut that ham thin, I’ll measure yuh for a harp. Make the coffee for grown men; _sabe_?”
“My ----, there still is joy in the world!” Harmony fairly skidded into the kitchen and began rattling the pans.
They squatted on their heels against the house and waited for Harmony to call them. Cliff came around from the front of the house, walking with his head down, and almost ran into them.
His face was a trifle drawn and in the harsh light of day he looked much older than his years.
“Mornin’, Cliff,” said Hashknife pleasantly. “Yuh kinda beat us out of bed this mornin’.”
Cliff nodded, but did not speak. It was evident that he was not interested. Milly came out through the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. She looked tired, weary, and did not speak to Hashknife and Sleepy. In a few moments Dorothy came out behind her.
It was evident that Dorothy had spent a sleepless night and an unpleasant morning.
She seemed on the verge of crying, but at sight of Cliff she braced up and tried to appear indifferent.
“Yore breakfast is ready, you two punchers!” sang out Harmony. “Come and git it!”
They got to their feet and started past the two girls, when Milly said:
“I wonder who this is?”
They turned and looked down the road, where a lone horseman was coming. He swung in at the gate and rode straight up to them. It was Buck Hardy. He lifted his hat and eased himself in the saddle, as he spoke directly to Cliff.
“When did you see Vincent Roche last, Cliff?”
“Vincent Roche?” Cliff squinted at Buck. “Why, Buck?”
“Somebody shot him last night.”
“Shot him?” It was Milly’s voice, almost a croak.
“Yeah--shot him. He had a lot of money with him, so Slim Cole says. He didn’t have any when we found him.”
Hashknife put a hand on Milly’s shoulder to steady her. She was staring into space, her hands clenched tightly.
“Sid Franklin found him,” continued Buck. “He was at the forks of the road. And stickin’ in his bosom was a trey of spades.”
“Was he dead?” asked Hashknife.
“Danged near it. I dunno whether he’s got a chance or not. The doctor’s workin’ on him.”
Hashknife grasped Milly by both shoulders.
“Brace up,” he whispered. “He’s still alive.”
She nodded dumbly. Cliff was staring at the ground, trying to think.
“How much money did Roche have, Cliff?” asked Buck.
“I don’t know!” Cliff threw up his head defiantly. “I’m not his banker. Slim Cole ought to know how much Vint won yesterday.”
“Well, I s’pose that’s right,” said Buck slowly. “Somebody seems to have the idea that you and Roche rode away together last night.”
“Somebody, eh? Who said we did?”
“Just somebody, Cliff.”
“Yeah? Do you think you can fasten this onto me?”
“Not me,” Buck shook his head. “I ain’t tryin’ to fasten it onto anybody, Cliff. I just wanted to know, tha’sall.”
“Well, you’ve found out.”
Cliff swung away from the house and headed for the stable. Buck looked after him thoughtfully. Milly and Dorothy had gone into the house, and Harmony was standing in the doorway, holding a pan in his hand. Buck turned back to Hashknife and Sleepy, and a look of understanding passed between them.
“Well, I reckon I’ll be ridin’ back to Oxbow,” said Buck.
“Wait until we saddle up and we’ll ride with yuh,” offered Hashknife. “Come on, Sleepy.”
They saddled quickly and rode away with Buck. Cliff watched them ride away, a puzzled expression in his eyes, while in the kitchen door stood Harmony, his head bowed in thought. Suddenly he looked around, stepped to the stove and picked up a frying-pan. He strode to the door, and with a flip of his hand, sent eight fried eggs spinning out into the yard.
“I’m just about through,” he told them. “It’s gittin’ so that they don’t even set down at the table.”
Buck showed Hashknife and Sleepy where Roche had been found, lying beside the road, near where the Diamond V road intersected with the county highway.
“Jud told me about losin’ that hat,” said Buck meaningly, as they rode on toward town.
“I reckon he still blames us,” grinned Hashknife. “But he’s all wrong, Hardy. We would have swiped it if we had a chance.”
“That’s what Jud said. I dunno why somebody is always tryin’ to block the law. This is the first killin’ that the Trey of Spades has done, and yuh bet it’ll go hard with him when he’s caught. Thunder county is plumb tired of that whippoorwill.”
“Who do yuh think it is?” queried Hashknife.
“Who?” Buck grinned sourly. “Well, figure it out for yourself, Hartley.”
“Cliff and Roche were the best of friends.”
“Yeah--sure. And Cliff needed money. Roche had over two thousand dollars when he left the Cheyenne last night.”
“If Cliff is the Trey of Spades--did he need money?”
Buck frowned at this new angle. It had never occurred to him that the Trey of Spades must have accumulated considerable money in a few months.
“Somethin’ to that,” he admitted. “Still, a couple of thousand is quite a argument agin’ it, Hartley.”
Hashknife knew that Buck’s argument was logical, and he also knew that Cliff had money when he came home. It looked bad for Cliff. They rode into town and found Farley at his office.
“He’s still alive,” said Farley in answer to their questions. “He’s badly hurt and the doctor don’t hold out much hope for him. Shot twice.”
“From behind?” asked Hashknife.
“What made yuh think that?” asked Farley quickly.
“The reasonable thing to do. Roche is a gunman. The Trey of Spades would know that, Farley.”
Farley nodded thoughtfully.
“Yeah, I s’pose that’s true. Anyway, Roche was shot from behind with a rifle.”
“Where did they find his horse?”
“It came to the ranch. That’s why Franklin went lookin’ for Roche early this mornin’. There was blood all over the saddle.”
“All over it, eh?”
“Yeah. I’ve got the saddle here in the back room.”
“I want to see it later,” said Hashknife. “Buck said there was a trey of spades.”
Farley took it from his pocket and handed it to him. It was not a new card and was of the brand known as “Steamboats.” Hashknife examined it closely and gave it back to Farley. They went to the rear room and looked at Roche’s saddle. It was an expensive thing, studded with silver; but just now it looked as if it had been dragged through a slaughter-house.
“Franklin brought the horse and saddle with him,” said Farley. “The horse is in the livery stable.”
“What’s your theory?” asked Hashknife.
Farley’s grunt was very expressive. They went back to the front office and out into the street.
“How about Blackie Dahl?” asked Hashknife.
“Not enough brains,” Farley shook his head. “Blackie is just a cold-blooded snake, tha’sall. The Trey of Spades has got more sense than an ordinary outlaw.”
“Roche knocked him down last night,” reminded Hashknife.
“Yeah, that’s true. But yore pardner shot a gun out of his hand and made him look cheap; and yore pardner is still alive.”
“I reckon you’ve got the right hunch.”
As they stood together, thinking it over, the minister came from the livery stable where he had just stabled his horse. He came up to them, with a smile on his dusty face.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them pleasantly.
Farley shook hands with him.
“I reckon we’re goin’ to need yuh, Jones.”
“Need me?” The smile faded, as he studied the serious face of the sheriff. “What is the matter, Sheriff?”
“The Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche last night, and he prob’ly won’t get well.”
“The Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche?” The minister was thoroughly shocked.
“Yeah. Shot him and stole somethin’ over two thousand.”
The Reverend Jones removed his hat and brushed back his hair nervously.
“Tell me more about this, Sheriff?”
In a few words Farley told him what they knew about the affair.
“Shot him in the back,” said the minister bitterly, “and left the Trey of Spades on his bosom. Has the doctor any hopes for him?”
“Just about one chance in a hundred.”
“Not very great. You say he is at the doctor’s home? I will go there at once and see what I can do to help.”
He nodded shortly and hurried on up the street.
“That’s my type of preacher,” said Farley. “He don’t try to act like he was so ---- much better than everybody else.”
“Pleasant sort of a jigger,” admitted Hashknife. “What kind of a sermon does he preach?”
“Never heard him yet. He’s been here quite a while, but yuh see he ain’t had no place to preach. He rides from one place to another, kinda makin’ the rounds. I’ll betcha he’ll sure have a crowd when he does preach.”
“I’d like to hear him,” said Hashknife.
“Yuh might get the chance. They’re fixin’ over that old saloon for him to use as a church, and it ought to be ready in a week or so.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy drifted over to the Cheyenne. The shooting of Vincent Roche was the main topic of conversation and there was none of the usual hilarity. Slim Cole met them with a grave smile, and with his usual invitation to have a drink; but they declined.
Blackie Dahl was there, sitting alone at a card-table. He glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy, a bit of a sarcastic smile on his thin lips. He seemed entirely sober, watchful; more dangerous sober than drunk. He must have known that men were hinting that he might have shot Vincent Roche to revenge the blow, but he did not seem afraid.
Buck Hardy came in and joined them near the bar.
“Just been down to the doctor’s place,” he said. “Roche has a fightin’ chance. The minister is down there with him now.”
“It’s too bad we don’t know who shot him,” said Slim. “This shootin’ was too mean to be left to the law.”
That seemed to be the general opinion of the cattlemen, as they rode into town and talked about the shooting. It was Saturday, and by the middle of the afternoon the hitch-racks were well filled with saddle-horses and vehicles of every description.
Hashknife and Sleepy sat around, listening to the talk. It was entertaining to listen to the different theories regarding the Trey of Spades. Buck Hardy was drinking heavily. It was not often that Buck looked upon the wine when it was red, but just now he had declared a holiday and was imbibing more than was good for him.
It was almost dinner time when Cliff Parker rode into town and tied his horse to a hitch-rack. There was nothing jovial about him as he strode into the Cheyenne and encountered Buck Hardy.
“C’mon and have a drink,” said Buck thickly, indicating the bar with a sweep of his arm, which almost overbalanced him.
Cliff squinted at Buck and shook his head slowly.
“I don’t want any drink,” he said gruffly.
“Is zasso? Don’t want no drink, eh? Zasso? My, my!”
There was quite a crowd at the bar and they were in the right mood to enjoy trouble. Cliff started on, but Buck grasped him by the arm. For a moment it appeared that Cliff was about to strike Buck, but he merely jerked his arm away. The sheriff elbowed his way in, but did not interfere in any way. Hashknife and Sleepy were near Cliff, as he almost jerked Buck off his feet.
“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” queried Buck angrily. “Think yo’re too good to drink with me? By ----, you ain’t too good. If somebody hadn’t stole that hat, you’d be in jail right now.”
Cliff did not move a muscle, but his eyes narrowed. Buck laughed shortly and turned to the crowd.
“He lost his hat the night he robbed the jewelry store, but somebody stole that hat from the sheriff. Gen’lemen, I introduce to you--the Trey of Spades.”
Buck tried to bow and almost lost his balance. Cliff swayed forward, his right hand sweeping downward to his gun. Came the soft slap, as hand met pistol-butt; but before he could draw Hashknife was into him, fairly picking him off the floor and going toward the door with a headlong rush.
So unexpected was the move that men stepped back to give him room. But Jud Farley, the sheriff, knew. Swiftly he went out behind Hashknife and Cliff, while behind him came Sleepy, blocking the crowd long enough to give Hashknife and the sheriff time to rush Cliff across the street.
Men’s voices broke into excited argument, as they realized Buck’s accusation. It meant that Cliff Parker was the man who had shot Vincent Roche.
“Jud Farley knew!” cried a cowboy, back in the crowd. “We’re wastin’ time here.”
“Aw, ----! He’s got him in jail by now!” snorted another.
“Don’t be a lot of ---- fools!” roared Slim Cole, trying to make himself heard. “If Cliff is guilty, the law will take care of him.”
Some one had procured a lariat, which they tossed toward the ceiling, and the half-drunk, reckless gang fell onto it like a pack of wolves and surged out through the door. Sleepy ran across the street, where Hashknife was standing in the doorway waiting for him. They went inside and barred the door. The jail cells were built into the rear half of the building, but had not been constructed to withstand any great assault. Jud Farley lifted a Winchester rifle and a sawed-off shotgun from pegs in the wall and laid them on his desk, while he took a supply of cartridges from his desk and spilled them into a pile.
“---- Buck!” he grumbled. “That’s what whisky does to yuh. Buck will be ready to cut out his tongue when he sobers up. That crowd is half-drunk and they’re willin’ to take Buck’s drunken talk for Gospel truth.”
“What’ll this place stand?” asked Hashknife, looking it over.
“A hard wind.”
The sheriff stuffed the Winchester full of cartridges, while Sleepy examined the double-barrel shotgun.
“You got Cliff in a cell?” queried Sleepy. But before he got a reply, some one hammered sharply on the door.
“Go ahead and talk,” said the sheriff.
“This is Franklin,” said the man outside.
“All right, Franklin.”
“We want Cliff Parker, Jud.”
“Thasso? And then what?”
Several voices mumbled softly, as if they were conferring on their next reply.
“We’ve got enough men to take this building apart,” said Franklin. “You haven’t shot square with us, Jud. You knew that Cliff Parker was the guilty man, but you let him keep on goin’. Now--we want him; _sabe_?”
“Folks don’t always get what they want,” replied the sheriff. “And I wouldn’t advise yuh to try takin’ this shack apart. I’ve got two good men in here with me, and we’re well heeled. If it comes to a showdown I’ll hand Cliff a gun and let him defend his own life.”
“You know your own business, Jud. And you know us, too. We’ll give you one minute to open that door.”
“All right!” The sheriff’s voice rang coldly, as he moved closer to the door. “Let me tell you somethin’. That door is thin. I don’t reckon it’s a inch thick in any place, and it ain’t hardwood. Right now there’s sixteen buckshot squintin’ at that door, and if you snake-hunters don’t break ranks right now----”
Came the sudden scrape of boot soles, as the crowd faded away from in front of the door. They knew the evil effects of buckshot, backed by three and one-half drams of powder, and they were not taking chances.
The sheriff laughed gleefully. It was getting dark in the room, but he did not want to light a lamp. There was a hum of voices outside, as the crowd debated.
“Prob’ly havin’ another drink,” grinned Farley.
A moment later a rock smashed through one of the front windows, half tearing away the heavy curtain. Sleepy did not stand on ceremony. The rock had barely crashed to the floor, when Sleepy sent a charge of buckshot screaming out through the curtain.
The concussion shook the house and the shot ripped the curtain into shreds, but the crowd had anticipated just such a move and had acted accordingly. The sheriff grabbed a blanket off a cot and ran to the window, quickly fastening it over the ruined one.
“Yuh can see we mean business, can’tcha?” yelled a voice.
“That sounds like Blackie Dahl,” said Farley. “Don’t pay no attention to ’em. That back door is solid oak and has a bar across it. They can’t hurt us from that direction.”
Some one outside fired a shot and the bullet splintered through the upper part of the front door.
“Bluffin’,” declared Farley. “They know ---- well we ain’t up that high.”
They sat down to wait for the next move. There was no more conversation. They knew that the crowd would not quit that easy. Suddenly a heavy weight crashed against the door lock, splintering the panel of the door.
“Look out!” snorted Farley. “Another like that and the door is open.”
He threw up his rifle and sent three bullets through the wall to the right of the door, trying to drive the assault away from that quarter. His answer came in the shape of two bullets, which hummed through the door and splatted over their heads against the wall.
“Gittin’ serious,” said Farley thoughtfully, as they moved farther out of line with the door. The room was filled with powder smoke, which tickled their throats.
“Tough travelin’,” said Sleepy, trying to suppress a sneeze. “I’ve seen places where I’d rather be than this. Let’s kick the door open and give ’em ----. This ---- idea of shootin’ from a fort don’t appeal to me. Dang it, yuh ain’t even got their address.”
Just then another blow crashed against the lock and the door creaked open, pieces of the lock spinning across the room.
“Flat down!” exclaimed the sheriff. “They’ve got us cold!”
Several voices yelped with triumph, while others warned against being too quick to assault.
“Bring him out, Jud!” yelled a voice. “We’ve got yuh now! Don’t be a ---- fool. Your life is worth more than the life of a dirty murderer, ain’t it? We’ll give yuh ten seconds to come out and hand over your guns.”
“What’ll we do?” queried the sheriff softly.
“Nobody ever counted me out yet,” said Hashknife.
The man outside was counting slowly, drawling the numerals--
“Wun-n-n-n--two-o-o-o-o-o--three-e-e-e--”
Came the clatter of footsteps, a muttered exclamation from the crowd outside, and a man stepped to the doorway of the office, silhouetted against the lights across the street. Three guns were trained on him from inside the building; some one outside swore viciously.
“This is a fine thing for a civilized community to do,” said the man in the doorway. It was the Reverend Mr. Jones, hatless and coatless.
“Git to ---- out of the door!” yelled a voice.
“It’s the preacher,” called one of them. “What does he want here?”
“A square deal,” said the minister. “If you would stop to think this over, I would not have to ask for a square deal, friends.”
“You better git out of the doorway,” cautioned a voice.
The minister laughed.
“No, I do not think so. If I stand here long enough, perhaps you savages will realize that you are all wrong. You want to hang Cliff Parker--or think you do. My advice to you is: go back where you came from and let the law handle it. What right have you to hang a man?”
“The ---- law won’t do it!” yelled some one.
“How do you know it won’t? Give it a chance. The sheriff doesn’t serve hangman’s knots with his warrants. And what right have you to judge Cliff Parker? The careless remark of a drunken man isn’t sufficient evidence. Go home before the sheriff has cause to arrest all of you for assault with deadly weapons.”
“He’d have a ---- of a time gittin’ a jury to convict us.” Thus some wit, who knew that such a thing would be impossible.
“Are we goin’ to argue or do what we came here to do?” demanded one of them. “We’ve got the door open.”
“He deserves hangin’,” said another.
“Who--the preacher?” The wit again. Several men laughed.
“I am glad to hear that laugh,” said the minister. “It proves that some of you are human enough to see the humor of hanging a minister. Now let’s all go home, or back to the Cheyenne, and let the sheriff handle this. Anyway, it is not a hanging matter. Vincent Roche is still alive.”
The crowd mumbled and argued, but their ardor was dampened, and they followed the minister’s advice.
“----!” snorted a disgusted voice. “I got the top-half of my ear shot off with a buckshot, and now I ain’t goin’ to git even with nobody. Preachers and civilization sure do rise ---- with the country.”
“And thus endeth that chapter,” said Hashknife wearily, and they moved over to the door. “I thought it was goin’ to be a reg’lar fight and it wasn’t nothin’ but a speech.”
The minister had followed the crowd, without waiting for the sheriff to thank him.
“They won’t come back again tonight,” said the sheriff. “It was kind of a half-cocked proposition, anyway; but it might ’a’ been bad pickin’ if the preacher hadn’t showed up. I’ll have to build me a new door, I reckon.”
“I’m goin’ to have a talk with Cliff,” said Hashknife. “You two stay here, in case they decide to come back.”
He went through the connecting door and down to the cell, where Cliff stood behind the bars trying to find out what was going on.
“It’s all over,” said Hashknife. “The minister stopped ’em.”
Cliff swore softly.
“The minister, eh? It’s a ---- of a wonder he didn’t head the mob.”
“Well, he sure done you a good turn. We couldn’t ’a’ stopped all of ’em. Now, I want to ask you a few questions, Cliff. You can lie, if yuh want to--but I hope yuh won’t. What do you know about that jewelry store robbery?”
“Not a ---- thing.”
“Wrong answer. Remember, I carried yuh away from behind that store.”
“All right.”
“What was you doin’ there?”
“I dunno.”
“You ain’t goin’ to pass in yore studies, young feller.”
“Oh, ----! What’s all this about, anyway, Hartley? Who are you?”
“One of yore pa’s hired men.”
“You better stick with your job and let me alone.”
“Thasso? You’ll have to tell it to a judge. If yuh tell it to me first, I’ll kinda figure it out, and between us we might be able to fool a jury.”
“Figurin’ that I’m guilty, eh?”
“Of bein’ a hard-headed ---- fool--yes.”
Cliff was silent for several moments. Then:
“Vincent Roche was a friend of mine, Hartley. I never shot him.”
“We was speakin’ about that jewelry store holdup.”
“All right. I told you I didn’t know anythin’ about it, and I don’t lie. I guess I was pretty drunk that night. I remember that the bartender at the Cheyenne told me I’d have delirium tremens, if I wasn’t careful.
“I went to the Rodeo restaurant to eat. I can remember it a little. The food made me sick, and I went out the rear door. I remember that I sat down out there. There was a cool wind blowing and it made me feel good. I was kinda trembly all over and I wanted to lie down, but was afraid.