Chapter XIV: Hashknife Journeys to Santa Dolores

But Hashknife did not find any vented brands the next day. He and Sleepy rode all day across the range, looking over bunches of cattle, but not a single one bore a vented brand.

“It looks as though you broke up the party,” decided Hashknife. “It was probably their first move at ventin’ brands, and you ruined it.”

“That’s about it. But will they quit at that?”

“Not likely.”

They got back to the ranch at supper time and talked it over with Steve, who seemed relieved to think that his cattle were untouched. Steve had been to town that day, giving Mary a good opportunity to see Bill. One Hop kept him plentifully supplied with food, and Mary kept him in books; but she said that Bill was getting restless.

“He thinks he ought to get out of the country,” Mary told Hashknife. “I’ve explained that there’s no way for him to get out. Some officer would pick him up, sure. But—oh, I don’t know. He gets bull headed at times. You might have a talk with him.”

“I don’t know what to do with him. I’ve worn my brain to a whisper tryin’ to figure out some way to clear him, but nothin’ works out. If he leaves here, he’s a goner. There’s a thousand reward, which is an inducement to anybody. Anyway, I’ll try to talk sense to him. Saw Pink yesterday.”

“How is he?” the girl asked him quickly.

“All right physically, but all wrong mentally. Lookin’ through blue glasses.”

Mary laughed and shook her head.

“I don’t understand him. The only time he’s been out here since the night of the party was when he caught me with all those boiled eggs.”

“He thinks enough of you to keep still about Bill McGill.”

“In other words, he thinks more of my opinion of him than he does of that thousand dollar reward.”

“Yeah, I reckon it would take several thousands to tempt him.”

“Is he—is he sore about Bill being here?”

“Sore about you takin’ care of Bill.”

“That’s foolish.”

“Mebbe. Of course, if Pink was hidin’ a lady in a dugout, packin’ her an armload of boiled eggs at daylight, and you knew it—”

Mary flushed quickly, but her sense of humor was keen enough to see the point.

“That’s true, Hashknife. Perhaps I have misjudged him.”

“He’s misjudged himself, too—and Bill McGill and you. But I had a talk with him, and mebbe he sees the light now. He’s not ignorant, you know.”

“What in the world did you tell him?”

“Oh, I didn’t lie.” Hashknife grinned. “I reckon I’ll have to make a little medicine talk to Bill McGill. He’s educated, but jist fool enough to tie a rope around his own neck. And if he got out and was caught, he’d probably tell where he’s been. I’ll speak a lot of words to him for him, and I’ll also speak a few words to him for me and you. Hangin’ don’t mean much to him, because he’s never been hung, and don’t know how painful it might be. Yeah, I’ll talk to Bill, plenty.”

And Hashknife did talk to Bill. He sat down in the dugout with him and told Bill in detail just what might happen to him if he got bull headed and left his hiding place. When Hashknife was finished, Bill had an idea that the dugout was not the worst place in the world, after all. “But,” said Bill, after making many promises, “I do not see why you are so anxious to preserve my life. What am I to you?”

“It’s like this. When a prominent citizen comes to a city, they generally hold a meetin’ and hand him the key to the place. Well, the city is Willow Wells, I’m the prominent citizen—and you’re the key.”

“The key to what?”

“Who knows? You set here and wait developments.”

* * * * *

The next couple of days were devoid of interest, as far as Hashknife was concerned.

The sheriff was no farther along on the robbery case, and of course he had no knowledge of Bill McGill’s whereabouts. He felt that Hashknife knew something about Bill McGill, but he also had a feeling that it would be a waste of time to try to find the boy. Hashknife was somewhat of an enigma to the sheriff. In fact, Hashknife was discussed whenever a group of men met around Willow Wells.

But Hashknife did not care, as long as they let him alone. He was on his way back to the ranch from town, when he was imbued with a certain hunch. At the ranch he tied his slicker on the back of his saddle, selected a rifle and scabbard and told Mary, who was the only one on the place except One Hop, that he was going away for a couple of days.

He told her to tell Sleepy that everything was fine and that he would be back when he got back. Mary did not ask him where he was going, but she watched him ride away across the hills, heading westward.

Sleepy was a little puzzled and perhaps a little angry. He wanted to be with Hashknife. Mary told him that Hashknife had taken a rifle; and that admitted the possibility of trouble, because the tall cowboy seldom rode with a rifle on his saddle. Steve had nothing to say about it. He and the rest of the boys had been riding in the hills to the north, but found few cattle. This was rather unusual, as that was their favorite range at this time of the year, and the water supply was still good. They had taken particular pains to look for vented brands, but found none.

“I tell you, Steve’s sick,” Thursday declared, after supper that night. “He don’t eat hardly anythin’, and he ain’t got a grin in his system. If I was him I’d see a doctor. No use sufferin’.”

“Indigestion,” diagnosed Sid Brayton, who had not the slightest idea what indigestion might be.

“How does that affect you?”

“Somethin’ like si-atti-ky.”

“That’s him all over.”

“If I ever get sick,” said Sleepy, grinning, “you jiggers keep away from me. You know too much about diseases.”

“Well,” said Sid, “I can shore cure a upset stummick.”

“How?”

“Stand you on your head and tip her back to normal. Aw, go ahead and laugh.”

Someone rode up to the front of the bunkhouse, and they went out to find Pink Lowry, dressed in his blue suit and a red shirt.

“My Gawd!” blurted Thursday. “We ain’t done nothin’—honest!”

Pink grinned widely. He dismounted, and Sid sang mournfully:

“Oh, a cowboy went a-courtin’,
Dressed in his Sunday suit.
He bowed so grand,
Asked for her hand,
And got her father’s boot.
Root, tootie, toot ’n’ toot toot!”

“You came jist in time.” Sleepy grinned. “We been wantin’ a fourth man to make up a poker game. C’mon right in, Officer.”

“Wait ’ll I do.” Pink laughed. “Will one of you hired men put away my horse?”

“Ee-magine that!” blurted Thursday.

“I don’t want to git the shine off my boots,” said Pink.

“Take ’em off. You ain’t got no socks on t’ spoil. Mebbe you’d like to have one of us go up to the house and announce that you’ve arrived.”

“You start up that way and I’ll shoot you.” Pink grinned. “I reckon I’ll tie m’ steed to the corral fence.”

“Yeah, and let him eat a hole in it, eh? That’s all your bronc ever gets—post oats. I’ve seen that buzzard head eat himself plumb through a corral fence. I’ll put him in the barn, if you don’t think he’ll git scared of some oats and choke himself to death.”

“Put a halter on him. He can’t choke himself with a halter.”

“Halter’d prob’ly scare him,” grumbled Thursday, as he led the animal away.

“My idea of a good time,” said Sid thoughtfully, “would be for all of us to go up to the house and spend the evenin’.”

“Wait till Thursday gets back,” said Sleepy. “Mebbe Mary will play on the organ for us.”

“If you do,” replied Pink ominously, “they’ll be datin’ time from the Pelliser ranch massacre. Good evenin’, gentlemen.”

Pink went striding toward the house, expecting that the three cowboys would do just as Sid suggested; and they probably would have, except that Sleepy pointed out that it would really be a mean trick. Sleepy had been in love and he knew a few things about it.

Mary and her father greeted Pink warmly, and he forgot all his misery. There was plenty of food for conversation, and when talk lagged Mary played the organ for them. Steve retired early.

“Steve ain’t lookin’ good,” declared Pink. “What’s wrong with him?”

Mary shook her head.

“I don’t know, Pink. He says he feels all right, but he won’t eat and he don’t sleep well.”

“Stummick gone wrong, I reckon.”

* * * * *

They went out and sat on the porch in the moonlight. It was warm out there, and they could hear Sid Brayton strumming on his guitar down in the bunkhouse. Crickets chirped softly, and in one of the trees a mocking bird seemed to be trying to imitate the higher notes of the mandolin.

“I dunno,” said Pink thoughtfully. “It’s always been so peaceful in the Valley, and now—”

“Something has gone wrong.”

“Looks thataway. Me and Dud have been wonderin’ a lot about Hashknife. Steve told Dud that Hashknife was workin’ on this Hart case. He didn’t say why he was workin’ on it, nor anythin’. He don’t seem to be doin’ anythin’, as far as we can see, except to kinda set around. He ain’t a detective, is he?”

“I don’t know a thing about him,” said Mary. “Dad gave Sleepy and Hashknife jobs. He told me that Hashknife had an idea that Bill McGill didn’t shoot Mr. Hart, and that he wanted Dad to discharge him, so he could investigate. Dad wouldn’t fire him. He likes Hashknife—we all like him—so Dad told him to keep the job and do as he pleased.”

“I reckon I was kinda sore about Bill McGill,” confessed Pink.

“When I met you with the eggs?” laughed Mary.

“Mm-m-m. Well, before that, Mary. Of course, that’s the first idea I had that Bill was out here.”

“Hashknife is a quick thinker.”

“Quick—y’betcha. And I’ll bet he’d be a hard _hombre_ in a fight. Looks long and thin and kinda quiet, but he’s got the squarest eyes I ever did see. They look through you. Oh, I’m for him, even if he did frame up to have me popped on the head in order to get Bill out of jail.”

“But he didn’t do that, Pink. I could swear he didn’t. I tell you he was sick about it, before Bill showed up. He thought they had lynched him.”

“Mebbe I’m wrong. But I wasn’t holdin’ it against him. I couldn’t believe Bill killed Hart.”

“They’d have hung him.”

“Sure thing. I dunno what all them men were doin’ there. Dud saw ’em. That is, he saw a bunch of men ridin’ away from in front of the office that night. That’s the queer part of it all. I never saw anybody, and Bill wasn’t there to tell what he saw.”

“He saw one masked man.”

“Just one, eh? Well, I’m not goin’ to worry about it. I’m goin’ to keep on drawin’ my hundred and ten a month, and one of these days I’ll have enough to buy me a few cows.”

“That’s fine,” said Mary. “Dad says you ought to succeed.”

“Any man that’ll wear a dress suit and a striped shirt ought to.”

“I wonder if you’ll ever forget that?”

“Not until after I meet the suit drummer that sold it to me. He’s got a lot of misery comin’. How do you like this suit?”

“Fine. But I like you better in the clothes you wear every day, Pink.”

Mary was very frank. Pink slowly rolled a cigarette.

“Well, I wish I’d have known that,” he said slowly. “I could have saved the price of a couple good cows.”

“Did you buy that suit on my account?”

“Yea-a-ah—and the dress suit, too. Don’t forget the dress suit.”

Mary laughed softly, and Pink chuckled over his cigarette.

Suddenly they both looked up, at the sound of a peculiar noise. It was like a sudden cry stopped almost before it began—one sharp note.

“What do you reckon that was?” asked Pink.

“I haven’t any idea. What did it sound like to you?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Sid was still strumming his guitar, and they could hear their voices raised in a heated argument of some kind.

“I guess it was the boys,” said Mary.

“Probably was.”

They talked for a few minutes longer, and Pink decided to go home. He said he did not want to wear out his welcome. They shook hands solemnly, said good night, and Pink went to the stable without saying anything to the boys in the bunkhouse. He was in fine spirits, whistling softly to himself.

The stable door was half open, and as he stepped in something struck him over the head and his consciousness went out in a shower of stars. He felt himself falling through space for miles and miles, floating among the clouds. They seemed heavy enough for him to walk on, like huge beds of rubber-like mist, and he was doing well until he fell through a hole and came back to earth with a dull thud.

For several moments he sat there in the dark, staring at the square hole, which was the door, with the moonlight streaming through. He wondered if that was the hole in the clouds through which he had fallen. By degrees he realized that it was a door and that he was sitting in a stable. His head was throbbing, and after an investigation he decided that someone had grafted a goose egg on the side of his skull.

He got drunkenly to his feet and groped his way to the door. It was quiet out there. He leaned against the wall and tried to puzzle out just what had happened to him. There was no question that someone had hit him. He looked inside, but no beams had fallen. His horse was there in the stall, where Thursday had left it.

He walked halfway to the bunkhouse, intending to tell the boys what had happened to him, but a sudden idea smote him and he went back to his horse, mounted and rode away.

“That’s a hell of a way to do,” he told his horse bitterly. “Here I keep away from her all this time, givin’ that danged tenderfoot the inside track on it, and when I do come out for a little visit he up and hits me over the head for it. I’d like to bet forty dollars that he _did_ kill Ed Hart. That jigger is mean enough to kill anybody.”

* * * * *

There was little of the grandeur of the early mining days left to Santa Dolores. The town had possibly fifty inhabitants, who eked out a living from the cattlemen and an occasional mining venture. It was on the same railroad as Newton, but it had become only a flag station, without even a dot on the map to show its existence. Many of the buildings had fallen down, and the inhabitants did not think it worth their time to remove the débris. Santa Dolores was in a fair way to become another of the ghost towns, although the inhabitants swore by the place and wished for another mining boom.

It was close to midnight when Hashknife came to Santa Dolores. He had taken the road over to Cinnabar and followed the old stage road from there to Santa Dolores. It was a distance of about forty-five miles from Willow Wells, but over a road which would be impassable for vehicles. Hashknife did not go to Cinnabar. He wondered if the horsethief was still running the hotel there, and decided to find out on his way back.

He stabled his tired horse and got a bed at a rickety hotel, where the old man in charge showed him to bed with a lantern.

“You won’t find no bed bugs,” he was assured solemnly. “Even a bed bug must eat once in a while, and our guests are few and far between.”

“That’s some consolation,” agreed Hashknife. “Have you lived here long?”

“About as long as there is. Yessir, I’m one of the oldest.” This was said proudly.

“Is this the county seat?”

“Used to be. Yessir, this was shore a good town in them days. We held the honor of bein’ the county seat until about ten year ago, when the court house burned down. They moved the county seat up to Piñon City, then, where she is now.”

“Court house burned, eh?”

“Y’betcha. Destroyed everythin’ connected with it.”

This did not sound so good to Hashknife. He wanted to get at some of the old records.

“Remember Jim McGowan?”

“Jim McGowan? Lemme see. Jim McGowan. Did he tend bar here?”

“I heard he was the sheriff.”

“Jim McGowan? Lemme see. Well, mebbe he was. Come to think of it, there was a McGowan sheriff. Yessir, there was. I ’member him now. Jim McGowan. Ain’t it funny how you’ll forget things like that? Do you know him?”

“He was killed over near Willow Wells a while back.”

“The deuce he was! Ain’t that too bad? I knowed him so well, too. I’m shore sorry about it. Great feller, Jim was. Us old-timers do pass away. I come near gittin’ me some harp lessons last winter. Damn’ house fell in on me. I jumped up and down on the floor to see if she was stout. Floor was all right, but the damn’ roof jumped down on me. They dug me out and said, ‘Abner, you’re dead.’ Fooled ’em. They all said, ‘Well, it’s jist like Abner—he will play jokes, even on the undertaker.’ I allus was knowed as a great joker. Well, I hope you sleep well. But if you feel like jumpin’ up and down to test the floor—remember what I told you.”

Hashknife assured him that he did not feel at all like jumping up and down on the floor. It was far from a good bed, but he was tired and slept until nine o’clock. The proprietor cooked him some breakfast and talked incessantly. He had forgotten Jim McGowan, and it needed quite a lot of prompting on Hashknife’s part to enable him to remember.

But Hashknife soon found that the man’s memory was hazy on most things that happened in the past; so he went out to look over the town. Near the depot was a sizable loading corral and there was evidence that it had been used as a shipping point.

Hashknife circulated around the old town, trying to find someone who knew clearly of the things that happened in the heyday of Santa Dolores. He had little luck, until he found two old men playing seven-up for matches in the livery stable where he kept his horse.

They were a pair of ancients, there was no doubt of that. Hashknife sat down with them. They filled their pipes.

“I imagine you’ve lived here a long time,” said Hashknife.

“If you mean me,” said one, “you’re all wrong. I’m a seafarin’ man from Gloucester. Hennery Cable’s my name. Come from a long line of ancestors—mighty long. The first Cables built—”

“He’s off like a stick of dinnymite!” exploded the other old man disgustedly. “I’ve heard that so many times. Seafarin’!”

“I am so, John Byrd! You know danged well I’ve been around the Horn twice in windjammers. I c’n prove it.”

“Twice! And you started from—where was it?”

“New Bedford.”

“Uh-huh. Last time you came overland, eh?”

“I did not! All the trippin’ I ever done was before the mast.”

“Then you’re back in New Bedford, ain’t cha?”

“I’m right here, you old moth-eaten badger.”

“Yeah, and you’ve been here fifteen year. I don’t believe you ever seen the ocean, except in a pitcher. Seafarin’!”

The seafaring man glared angrily, helped himself to a fresh chew of tobacco and looked Hashknife over.

“You ain’t droppin’ anchor in this harbor, be you?”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“Don’t. If you ever spoke a word, they’d make you out a liar. They think the Horn is somethin’ that grew on a cow. I’m jist about through with this place.”

“You’d think he jist come here,” jeered the other. “Fifteen years, or I’m a cow’s uncle. And the lies he’s told about spearin’ whales, and wrecks. Huh! Wouldn’t know a whale if he met him on the road. There’s three damn’ liars in Arizony, and Hennery Cable’s all three of ’em.”

“Well,” said Henry Cable disconsolately, “that’s the worst of a sailor comin’ out here. You can’t prove seamanship in no danged desert.”

“I’ve been here twenty-five years, and I’m proud of it,” said Byrd.

“A feller like you don’t need much to make him proud.”

The argument might have been interminable, but Hashknife asked Byrd if he remembered when Jim McGowan was sheriff of that county.

“Jim McGowan? Shore do. Why, he was buried here a short time ago, and I went to his buryin’.”

“That’s right, he was. Remember him pretty well, eh?”

“Pretty much. I was in and out of here at that time. Minin’, mostly.”

“Ever know Caliente Smith?”

“Knowed lotsa Smiths, but I don’t jist remember that one.”

“Drove stage between here and Cinnabar.”

“Yeah? Prob’ly. Long time ago, that was.”

“Do you remember a big holdup, in which a lot of raw gold was stolen?”

The old man filled his pipe carefully, tamped the tobacco down with a gnarled finger, and frowned thoughtfully.

“I jist do remember that,” he said. “It was on a stage between here and Cinnabar. But I ain’t so very clear on the details. Lemme see. Yeah, I was freightin’ at that time, but I ’member the holdup. They shore got plenty _dinero_, them fellers.”

“More than one man?”

“Yeah, there was. Lemme see. Yeah, they shot one feller all up, but the rest of ’em got away with the gold. I ain’t recollected that incident f’r years.”

“Did this one man die?”

“I ain’t shore about that. You see, one man more or less in them days didn’t make no difference.”

“And the gold mines played out, eh?”

“Oh, shore. Nobody left there now.”

“I think there was a guard shot at that holdup,” said Hashknife, trying to refresh the old man’s memory. “The sheriff’s horse was killed, so he took one of the stage horses to ride.”

“Yessir, that’s a fact. Buck Bowen was the guard. Crippled for life, he was. The bullet took him in the elbow. I kinda remember, now. That feller’s name was Neilson—Nelson—Neilan? No, it was Neal—well, somethin’ like that. He was tried right here in Santa Dolores.”

“Then he didn’t die, eh?”

“Mebbe he did. I ’member there was a trial, but I wasn’t here.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, I reckon about twenty year ago.”

“Did you ever hear of the Willow Valley Copper Company?”

“Nope. Don’t remember it, anyway.”

“Did you ever know a Dr. McGill?”

“Dr. McGill? Can’t place him. Was he doctorin’ around here?”

“I don’t suppose he was.”

Hashknife thanked them for the information and went back to the hotel, where he talked with the old landlord again. He remembered Jim McGowan readily, and they talked about Jim’s being buried in Santa Dolores.

“I was to his buryin’,” declared the old man. “I c’n see it jist as plain as though it was yesterday.”

“How long ago was it?” asked Hashknife curiously.

“Twenty-two year ago last winter.”

Hashknife gave up. There did not seem to be any one in Santa Dolores whose memory was clear on events of twenty years ago; so he decided to ride back that evening to Cinnabar. But this time he was going to be more careful with his horse.