Chapter XII: Pink Makes a Discovery

It was shortly after daylight the next morning at the SP ranch. The sun was still below the horizon, but the eastern sky was bathed in a warm glow. Smoke was drifting lazily from the kitchen stove pipe, as One Hop prepared breakfast. Perhaps One Hop was cooking a little earlier than usual, as it would be an hour before the breakfast call would come clanging from his gong, a segment of an old circular saw suspended on a wire.

Hashknife was awake. He got softly out of his bunk, looked at his watch and quietly dressed, without waking any of the others. He wanted a chance to talk with Bill McGill before the rest of the crew were around. Mary was in the kitchen, watching One Hop boil eggs and make toast.

The old Chinese, in the secret, grinned at her as he prepared a meal for the man in the dugout. Mary was just a little impatient—afraid someone might see her going to the hiding place.

“Clowboy not wake yet,” One Hop assured her. “Steve sleep plenty ha’d. You no be flaid. I make plenty fo’ all day. Eight eggs plenty, eh?”

“Plenty.” Mary smiled.

She took the food, wrapped it in a towel and tucked it under her arm. Praying that no one would see her, she started for the stable. If she reached there safely, the rest would be simple, because the remainder of her way would be out of line with any window in either the ranch-house or bunkhouse.

She stepped around the corner of the stable—and ran face to face with Pink Lowry. It was such a shock that she almost dropped her bundle. In fact, she did loosen it to such an extent that an egg rolled out and fell to the ground. Pink glanced at the egg, which did not break, stooped to pick it up and found it quite warm.

Neither of them had spoken. But Hashknife had seen Pink just a few moments before Mary reached the corner and had rushed out to try to save the day. He saw Pink pick up the egg. His laugh broke the spell and they turned.

“I didn’t mean for you to bring my breakfast out to me, Mary,” he said. “I just meant that I didn’t want to wake anybody up in the house. But it’s all right—and thanks.”

He took the bundle from Mary, and the eggs began to fall—one, two, three, four, five—

“Here’s your other one,” said Pink foolishly, as Hashknife began picking them up.

Mary leaned against the stable, breathing hard, her eyes on Pink, wondering if he believed that all those eggs were for Hashknife’s breakfast. Hashknife had all of them that had dropped in his two hands, when the other two fell out of the bundle.

“Jist like a magician I seen once,” said Pink seriously. “Mebbe if you unroll that towel a pigeon will fly out.”

“Yeah,” grunted Hashknife, retrieving the other eggs.

“You shore have an appetite,” said Pink.

“Pretty good, Pink. How comes you out here so early?”

“Oh!” grunted Pink. “I plumb forgot what I came for. Somebody robbed the bank last night and Evans sent me out—”

“The bank in Willow Wells?”

“Yeah. Mrs. Davis was huntin’ for her husband, ’cause he didn’t come home. He didn’t seem to be in the bank, and every other place was closed. It was about three o’clock this mornin’ when she woke us up; she was kinda scared. She said he went to the bank last night to fix up some papers—”

“Where and how didja find him?”

“Evans kicked out the rest of that busted winder and we found Davis under a counter, all tied up and gagged. The safe was open and all the money gone. Davis couldn’t talk for quite awhile, on account of that gag crampin’ his jaws. He only seen one man, who met him on the street, made him open the bank and open the safe. Davis says he heard two shots when the man went out the front door, and Evans says that’s when Caliente—”

“So that was it, eh? Never mind the breakfast, Mary. Wait’ll I get my horse and I’ll be with you, Pink.”

Hashknife went into the stable, leaving Pink and Mary together.

“I certainly was surprised to see you,” she said, laughing nervously.

“I guess you was. The tall feller thinks kinda fast, don’t he?”

“Thinks fast? Why, what makes you think he does?”

“That bunch of grub.”

“Oh, you mean his breakfast?”

“I’d like to see him eat it all.”

“Oh, he really does have a good appetite.”

“Eight hard boiled eggs! Mary, were you takin’ food to—Bill McGill?”

Mary’s face paled a little, and Pink knew he was right. He took a deep breath, walked almost to the stable door, then came back.

“It’s all right,” he said softly. “What I don’t _know_ won’t hurt me, Mary.”

She blinked quickly and looked away.

“That’s nice of you, Pink.”

“It doesn’t matter, you know. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“I won’t forget it.”

Hashknife was leading his saddled gray from the stable, and Pink walked to the far side of the building, where he had left his horse. Hashknife grinned at Mary, but received no answering smile.

“He knows!” she whispered. “He guessed it, Hashknife.”

Hashknife’s jaw set tightly for a moment and his eyes narrowed.

“But he says he won’t tell,” she whispered.

“Good. Get the grub to him as quick as you can.”

Pink rode up to them and Hashknife mounted. Pink did not look at Mary as they rode away, but Hashknife turned and waved at her.

“She’s wavin’ at us,” said Hashknife.

“She ain’t wavin’ at me,” replied Pink doggedly.

“Any special kind of a wave you’d recognize with the back of your head?”

“Oh, go to hell!”

Hashknife chuckled, reached across and slapped Pink on the shoulder. But the deputy was in a black mood; he jerked away angrily.

“Aw, cheer up.” Hashknife grinned. “A man must eat.”

“Yea-a-ah!” Pink turned and scowled at Hashknife. “You—you or somebody else around this ranch popped me over the head and brought that damn’ fool tenderfoot out here, eh? That’s fine! And I’m sucker enough to tell her that I’d keep my mouth shut.”

“Do you think a lot of her, Pink?”

“Aw, what’s the use talkin’ about it? I know when I’m sunk.”

“If I told you that Bill McGill don’t mean anythin’ to her?”

“Go ahead and lie about it. I told her I’d keep my mouth shut, and I’ll do it. That lets me out. Let’s drop the matter.”

“Oh, all right.”

* * * * *

They found the sheriff at the bank with Davis, whose lips were still sore from the rough gag. It was still too early for the town to have learned the news.

“How much did he get?” asked Hashknife.

“Approximately twelve thousand dollars.”

“Pretty good haul, eh? What did he look like?”

“Medium height, masked, and talked hoarsely, as if suffering from a bad cold. I had left the bank and was starting home when this man met me. He shoved a gun in my face. He merely said, ‘Davis, walk back ahead of me and open the bank. If you make a crooked move I’ll kill you.’

“What could I do? There was nobody on the street, but I could hear voices over at the War Paint. We went back and I unlocked the door. He made me stand near the entrance, while he tied my hands behind my back with a long rope. Then he closed the door, which locks with a spring, and made me go ahead of him to the safe. Then he tied my feet and made me lie down. He had not spoken since he met me, except to warn me.

“He asked me for the combination of the safe. I refused to give it to him and he said, ‘Oh, all right. I’ve got a few sticks of dynamite all set to touch off, and if you don’t give me that combination, I’ll blow you and this damn’ bank out through the window.’

“He showed me the dynamite, but I couldn’t be sure, because it was too dark in the bank. He was busy at something for a few moments and I asked him what he was doing. He replied that he was fixing the dynamite.

“Well, I gave him the combination, and he worked it by the light of matches, after he had gagged me and tied me up tightly. He rolled me under the counter before he opened the safe, and I didn’t see him again. But I heard him leave the safe and stand at the front door.

“That was when a great commotion started out there. I heard the door slam shut, just after the first shot was fired, and then I heard the window break. I thought someone had discovered him, but when no one came here, I didn’t know what to think.”

“There was two sticks of dynamite on the floor,” said the sheriff.

“I guess he meant business,” sighed Davis.

“Men who bust banks usually do,” remarked Hashknife as he looked around the floor.

“I’ve looked everythin’ over carefully,” said Evans. “All I found was the two sticks of dynamite.”

Hashknife looked them over. They were of the usual percentage of nitroglycerin used in mining.

“Said he’d blow the bank out through the window, eh?” Hashknife smiled. “Had a sense of humor, evidently. Where’d he get the gag?”

“It was an old dust cloth,” said Davis, working his jaws painfully. “And it wasn’t very clean.”

They left Davis alone in the bank and went down to the office.

“I thought you might have an idea,” said the sheriff. “That’s why I sent Pink out for you right away. It was the bank robber who shot old Caliente. Prob’ly thought they were after him.”

“That’s the answer. Did Caliente and Piute go home last night?”

“I don’t think so. Their horses were still at the rack this mornin’, and I put ’em in the stable. Them two old badgers prob’ly went to the hotel after we left.”

As far as Hashknife could see there was nothing to be done. The man had left no clue.

“There’s a lot of blind cañons around here,” said Hashknife.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you run up against blank walls all the time. Two men dead and a bank robbed, and I’ll defy you to pick up a trail on any of ’em.”

“Jim McGowan was killed in self-defense.”

“That’s what they say.”

“Don’t you believe it, Hartley? You don’t think Pink shot him outright, do you?”

“McGowan’s gun had an empty shell, didn’t it?”

“Shore did.”

“Uh-huh. Well, somebody’s twelve thousand to the good this mornin’. Will that cripple the bank?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so; but it’ll shore make a dent. That’s a lot of money. Didja know there’s a thousand dollars reward for Bill McGill?”

“I heard there was.”

“Some folks seem to think that the SP outfit know where he is.”

Hashknife smiled slowly.

“I dunno, Evans; I never asked the outfit.”

“A thousand dollars is a nice piece of money.”

“Shore. And Bill McGill’s a nice boy—wherever he is.”

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders. He could not understand Hashknife. Steve had told Evans that Hashknife was working on the case, but Evans did not understand what it was all about. He was perfectly willing to have assistance, but he did not see what a mere cowboy could do.

* * * * *

Caliente and Piute came down to breakfast at noon. They were still grumbling at each other. The bartender

had taken Caliente down to the doctor’s office, or rather his home, before putting them to bed at the hotel, and Caliente was favoring his arm that morning.

Hashknife made it a point to meet them, and the three of them went to the restaurant together, where Hashknife told them what had happened at the bank and how Caliente got shot. They were amazed.

“We thought you fired both shots,” said Hashknife. “You had two empty shells in your gun.”

“I allus keep the hammer on a empty shell, young feller.”

“That accounts for it.”

“But who robbed the bank?” asked Piute, gulping down some water.

“Nobody knows.”

They ordered their breakfast, the eating of which seemed to put them in better humor.

“You’ve been around here a long time, ain’t you, Caliente?” asked Hashknife.

“He’s the oldest inhabitant,” declared Piute, wolfing hotcakes.

“No such a damn’ thing! I’ve been in Arizony a long time.”

“Punchin’ cows all the time?”

“Not all the time. I’ve driv’ stage, mined a little.”

“That was before my time,” grinned Piute. “All I believe is what I’ve seen.”

“Who cares what you believe? I had me plenty copper claims in the old days, but they never panned out. Gimme that syrup, Piute. Yeah, that’s it—the pitcher with all the flies on the outside.”

“How long ago was that?” asked Hashknife.

“Twenty-odd year ago. I used to drive the stage from Cinnabar to Santa Dolores.”

“Not very damn’ long,” said Piute, reaching for the syrup. “They got on to him and fired him off the job.”

“No such a danged thing. I quit. Got held up and the guard was shot in the arm. He reached for his gun. The owners of the stage acted as if I should have took a chance, so I got mad and quit. Gimme the syrup.”

“I’d believe that if I’d seen it,” said Piute.

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to prove nothin’ to you. Jim McGowan was the sheriff of Santa Dolores at that time. He didn’t know me, ’cause I was quite a new man there at that time. But if he was alive, I could make him remember me. Him and his deputy took one of my stage horses. You see, them three stage robbers downed the sheriff’s horse and they needed rollin’ stock.”

“How much money did they git off your imagination stage?” asked Piute.

“Forty-five thousand.”

“Haw-haw-haw-haw-haw! Forty-five thousand what? Not dollars?”

“Danged close to two hundred pounds of raw gold.”

Piute shook his head at Hashknife.

“You can’t do a thing with him when he’s thataway. Humor him and wait until he’s back to normal.”

Hashknife smiled, as the two old men glared at each other.

“Did they recover the gold?” asked Hashknife.

“They never did. Two men got away. The sheriff got one of ’em. The posse shot him, I reckon. I dunno much about it, ’cause I quit my job.”

“Tell us some more of your adventures, Diamond Dick,” begged Piute. “I’ve read that one before.”

“Read? You couldn’t read nothin’.”

“That was a lot of money to get away with,” observed Hashknife.

“Lot of story to git away with, too.” Piute laughed.

“Gospel truth, you—you sidewinder.”

“McGowan used to be the sheriff at Santa Dolores, eh?”

“Y’betcha. Served out his term. I heard his wife died up there. That’s why Scotty took his body up there, I reckon. Next time I seen Jim McGowan, he was runnin’ a big gamblin’ house in Apache City. That was about three years later. He shore was doin’ great, but I reckon he got to rollin’ ’em a little too high ’cause he went out of business, and I never seen him again until he bought out the Diamond R ranch.”

“You spoke about the minin’ around here,” said Hashknife. “Did you ever hear of the Willow Valley Copper Company?”

Caliente thought deeply, and Piute grinned maliciously.

“Pardner, you’re leavin’ yourself wide open for some awful lyin’.”

“I don’t remember it,” said Caliente. “Nossir, I don’t.”

“Well, I’m shore surprised,” said Piute. “He remembers the Battle o’ Waterloo perfectly.”

Caliente ignored Piute.

“There was a lot of minin’ goin’ on, and a lot of companies formed; but I don’t remember that one. I owned the Copper Girl, the Copper Kid and the Sweetheart mines, and I had half interest in several others. But they never paid nothin’. Nobody made anythin’ until they made that big gold strike out east of Cinnabar. That played out in a year or so. It was the gold from them mines that I was haulin’ when I was held up. It was worth eighteen dollars per ounce and I had close to two hundred pounds.”

“If reports are true,” said Piute dryly, “I reckon me and you better hightail it for home. We’ll prob’ly git a lecture from Aunt Ida, as it is. Uncle Hoddy kinda knocked her ears down awhile back. Declared himself as bein’ a free man. Since then she’s laid off him, but piled it plenty on me and Caliente. He deserves it, I suppose—the drunken idiot.”

Hashknife went down to the stable with them and watched them ride away, still arguing. The old men were prone to exaggeration, and Hashknife wondered how much of that holdup story was true. Probably none of it, he decided. Nearly all the old-timers had at least one wild story to tell, but usually they figured as the heroes of the tales. Caliente had merely quit the job because the owners doubted his bravery.

He asked Evans if he knew that Jim McGowan had been sheriff at Santa Dolores, but Evans had never heard anything about it. He had never heard of McGowan until he bought the Diamond R, nor had he ever heard McGowan say anything about ever having been a sheriff.

* * * * *

Mary told her father about the robbery, and he came to town, anxious to learn the details. He told Hashknife that he was a director in the bank. Uncle Hoddy was another of the directors, and Davis had already sent a man out to notify him. Aunt Ida came in with him. Caliente and Piute had told him about the robbery, and he was ready to leave when he had official word from Davis.

They all met at the bank, in company with the sheriff, to talk things over. It was nearly noon when Sleepy and Thursday rode in. They found Hashknife and Pink at the sheriff’s office. Thursday wanted to talk with the sheriff.

“I’m his shadder,” said Pink. “What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you what I want—I want somebody’s scalp. Me and Sleepy found a SP cow this mornin’ sucklin’ a Diamond R calf. And that Diamond R ain’t twenty-four hours old. They might at least wait until a calf gits through suckin’, before they _oreano_ him.”

Pink looked serious. Things like that had been done before, and only in rare cases was it discovered. An _oreano_ is a motherless, unbranded calf, legitimate prey of the first man to run on his brand. But this calf had not yet left its mother.

“And we’ve got the mother and daughter in an old corral, ready to give plenty evidence,” said Sleepy.

“That,” said Pink, “looks mighty bad for Scotty McGowan.”

“I’ll tell you it does,” agreed Thursday. “Awful bad. He’ll have a lot of tall explainin’ to do to Steve Pelliser.”

Pink stepped to the door, looked out and came back quickly.

“There’s Scotty and that scar faced Smith,” he said, picking up his belt and gun, which he had laid aside. “Mebbe we better wait for Dud and Steve.”

“Good scheme,” agreed Hashknife.

A few minutes later Steve, Uncle Hoddy and the sheriff came down to the office, talking earnestly. Thursday told Steve what they had discovered. Steve was mad.

“That’s goin’ too far,” he said angrily.

“Scotty and that scar faced Smith are over at the War Paint,” said Pink.

“Let me handle this,” suggested the sheriff. “No use makin’ trouble out loud. I’ll bring Scotty over here.”

“Go ahead,” grunted Steve shortly. In a few minutes Evans came back with Scotty, and they walked into the office. Scotty looked sharply at the other men, but said nothing.

“Here’s what I wanted you for,” said the sheriff. “Stevens and Thursday say they found a SP cow this mornin’, sucklin’ a Diamond R calf.”

Scotty’s eyes narrowed, but he did not flinch.

“Plenty nerve,” thought Hashknife.

“And the Diamond R calf ain’t more than twenty-four hours old,” said Thursday.

Scotty smiled a little, but his eyes were hard.

“Yeah,” he said slowly.

“Well?” queried Steve angrily. “What about it, McGowan?”

Scotty looked at Steve for several moments. Then—

“I’d like to talk privately with you, Pelliser.”

“Talk privately, eh?”

“If you don’t mind—yeah.”

“All right, I’ll listen to you.”

They walked out, crossed the street and stopped near the blacksmith shop. It was too far away for any one to hear what was being said or to see the expressions on their faces. They were there for at least five minutes, after which they walked together up to the War Paint.

The suspense was too much for Thursday. He went over to the saloon, where he met Steve on the porch. They talked for a few moments, after which Steve went to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and rode homeward. Thursday watched him ride away, scratched his head thoughtfully and came slowly back to the office.

“You can ask me all the questions you care to,” he said, “but I’ll be darned if I can answer ’em. Steve jist said, ‘It’s all settled, so we’ll drop the matter, Thursday.’”

“Can you imagine that? Droppin’ a case of plain rustlin’! What’s the matter with folks, anyway?”

The sheriff shook his head. He had troubles of his own. Hashknife lighted a fresh cigarette and smoked thoughtfully.

“Well,” said Sleepy, “if he don’t care—I don’t. They ain’t my calves.”

“That’s the best way to look at it,” said Hashknife.

Sleepy and Thursday went back to the ranch, and the sheriff went to the War Paint with Hashknife, where they found Scotty in a poker game. He grinned at them rather triumphantly. Smith was at the bar, having a drink alone. Hashknife studied him at a distance, wondering what he really looked like before the horse kicked him in the face.

There were livid, bare patches in his bristling gray hair, where the doctor had sewed his scalp together. He was possibly past fifty years of age, hard as nails. His fists were gnarled, calloused, and the leer on his twisted face was not good to see. His eyes were a slate blue, and he was evidently letting his beard grow to cover some of his scars.

He wore an old, homemade cartridge belt, sagging heavily from the pull of a big Colt. The holster was held down by a leather string which circled his right leg.

“Ties his holster down,” observed Hashknife to himself. “Mebbe his belt fits loose, and the gun bobs when the horse gallops, or mebbe he’s lookin’ for a quick pull and wants to be sure it comes loose.”

* * * * *

They were still in the saloon when Hashknife decided to go back to the ranch. He realized that he was accomplishing nothing. Why did Pelliser make some sort of deal with Scotty McGowan? What kind of deal could two men make in a case of this kind? McGowan had not denied his guilt in the matter. It looked to Hashknife as if Scotty had something on Steve Pelliser. It was not like Steve to overlook a plain case of stealing, but it seemed that he had.

Hashknife stabled his horse and went around to the bunkhouse. Mary was on the back porch, talking with One Hop. When she saw Hashknife she came down to him.

“Everythin’ all right?” he asked.

“You mean with Bill? Yes, he’s all right. Dad seems all broken up over the bank robbery. He actually looks ten years older. I have never known anything to affect him so much. I suppose it’s partly on account of Ed Hart’s death. So many things happening, you know.”

Hashknife nodded slowly, wondering if it was the bank robbery that affected him. Mary said there was no one at the ranch except her father and the Chinese cook; so Hashknife decided to have a talk with Bill McGill. Mary said her father was asleep in the front room and she would go back to talk with him in case he awakened.

Bill was overjoyed to see Hashknife and asked for the latest news. He seemed amused over the fact that they were offering a reward for him. It never seemed to strike Bill that he was in a dangerous position. The bank robbery meant nothing to him. During their talk Bill showed Hashknife the two letters he was carrying. These interested Hashknife, and he studied over them quite awhile.

“If I could only find someone who remembers that Willow Valley Copper Company,” said Bill. “But I don’t suppose there is any hope.”

“I reckon not. I’ve talked with old-timers. It wasn’t much of a company, I guess. Anyway, twenty years is a long time.”

Hashknife was groping in the dark for something to work on. In all his life he had never worked on a case that offered so little in the way of leads.

“Mary told me how she nearly got caught this morning,” said Bill.

“She did get caught. Pink Lowry knows you’re here on this ranch.”

“Does he? Does Mary know this?”

“Shore.”

“Well,” Bill said wearily, “I suppose I’ll be back in jail again.”

“You stick right here, Bill. If Pink gives you away, he breaks his word with Mary. And I don’t think he’d do that.”

“He likes Mary, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t reckon there’s any use denyin’ that.”

“I don’t blame him. I do too, Hashknife.”

“I don’t think anybody would blame either of you. See you later.”

Hashknife took care of his gray horse before going back to the house. One Hop was sitting on the back porch, smoking a long pipe. He grinned, and Hashknife sat down with him and rolled a cigarette.

“You been here a long time?” asked Hashknife.

“Yessa, long time. Long time ago I come Alizona. I be heah on SP fo’ seven-eight yea’ next July. I long time cook.”

“Go back to China some day, eh?”

“Get old man, mebbe I go. Alizona plitty good.”

They smoked quietly for several minutes. Inside the house they could hear Mary and her father talking.

“You remember the night Jim McGowan got shot out there, One Hop?” asked Hashknife.

“Yessa.” One Hop bobbed his head quickly.

“You were lookin’ down that way when the shots were fired?”

“Mm-m-m,” One Hop murmured thoughtfully. “I no see.”

“It was very dark, but you saw the flashes of the guns.”

“Mm-m-m. How you know? You not hea’.”

“I know a few things, One Hop. You saw three flashes.”

The old Chinese let the smoke drift from his wide nostrils in a thin stream, his eyes half closed. Finally he shook his head.

“I hea’ two shot.”

“You saw three flashes.”

Slowly the Chinese knocked the ashes from his pipe and got to his feet.

“I bake bleed today,” he said. “Must go watch.”

He shuffled into the house. Hashknife smiled over his cigarette. It had been pure guesswork on his part, but he was satisfied that he was right. The Chinese had admitted nothing, denied nothing.

That night he and Sleepy talked over things, and Sleepy was inclined to be a little disgusted over the tame ending of their _oreano_ affair.

“We turned that cow and calf loose,” he said. “Thursday wanted to vent the Diamond R and run on the SP, but I said I wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with it. If Steve Pelliser don’t want the calf, I’m danged sure I’m not goin’ to force it on him.”

Hashknife smiled, but agreed with Sleepy.

“Sid and Thursday are both wonderin’ how it is that the boss will let you spend your time off the job,” said Sleepy. “I told ’em you was helpin’ the sheriff. That’s the only thing I could tell ’em.”

“It’s all right. But danged little help he’s gettin’ from me. Sleepy, this is a tough layout. I’m beginnin’ to cuss Bill McGill for leadin’ us into this place.”

“I wonder where poor old Bill is.”

“Poor Bill’s all right. He’s in that old dugout behind the stable, livin’ on the fat of the land and hardboiled eggs.”

“Well, holy henhawks! How’d he get there?”

Hashknife explained all about it. Sleepy was greatly amused when he heard how Mary had run into Pink with the armload of food.

“Pink’s no fool,” grinned Hashknife. “He knew. But he’s stuck on Mary and promised not to tell. He figures that Bill has got the edge on him, and it shore has taken all the sunshine out of Pink’s future. He almost bit me this mornin’.”

“What do you think about that robbery?”

“I can’t even think, pardner. They’ve got me runnin’ around in circles—like a pup tryin’ to lay down. They’re offerin’ a thousand dollars for Bill, you know.”

“Yeah, I know—and lettin’ calf rustlers go free. Hell of a country.”