Chapter XV: Bill Is Taken for a Ride

The mellow notes of One Hop’s gong echoed from the hills as the three men in the SP bunkhouse drew on their boots that morning. They had been trying to frame up something to tell Mary about Pink Lowry. None of them knew what time Pink left the ranch.

“Mebbe we better lay off Pink,” said Thursday. “Steve ain’t in no joshin’ frame of mind, you know, and if we’ve got anythin’ funny to pull off, we better wait until Steve ain’t there.”

Thursday stamped into his boots and went outside, where he headed for the stable. It was religion with Thursday to see that his horse was all right before eating breakfast. Sleepy and Sid finished dressing and went up to the back porch, where they performed their morning ablutions at the old wash basins, splattering water all over each other and quarreling over the towel.

Mary came out through the kitchen and they grinned at her.

“Didn’t expect you up before noon today,” said Sid, seriously.

“Why not?”

“Oh, I dunno. Me, I’d sleep half the day, if I set up all night.”

“I wasn’t up all night.”

“No? Didn’t I see Pink ridin’ away from here jist at daybreak?”

“You did not, Sid.”

“Well, it shore looked like him. I called Sleepy to the winder, and I said, ‘There goes young Lochinvar.’ Didn’t I, Sleepy?”

“Somethin’ like that,” mumbled Sleepy, his face in the towel. Neither of them had been up at daylight, and Mary knew it.

Thursday was coming up from the stable, half running in his haste.

“Is Steve in the house?” he asked.

“Eating breakfast,” said Mary.

“Well, that’s danged funny! My saddle’s missin’.”

“Your saddle?” grunted Sid. “What’s th’ joke, Thursday?”

“No joke about it—it’s gone.”

“You prob’ly left it somewhere.”

“I hung it up last night, I tell you. I’m not jokin’, Sid.”

“Huh! I suppose somebody packed it away on their back, eh?”

“I’ll betcha they didn’t. Sleepy’s horse is gone, too.”

Sleepy dropped the towel and started for the stable, with Sid and Thursday following. Mary went in and told Steve, who came out at once. There was no question that Sleepy’s horse and Thursday’s saddle were missing.

“It was shore there when I stabled Pink’s horse,” said Thursday.

“You don’t suppose Pink played a joke on us, do you?” asked Sid.

“That kind of stuff is no joke,” said Steve seriously as they went back to the house. “I’ll give you another horse, Sleepy, and if that saddle don’t show up, I’ll buy another one for Thursday.”

“That ain’t the point—but thanks just the same,” said Sleepy. “I’d like to get my fingers on that gent.”

“Me too,” grunted Thursday. “I jist had that saddle well broke in.”

“It ought to be,” said Sid. “You’ve had it five years.”

Sleepy had a suspicion that Pink Lowry might know something about the missing horse and saddle, so after breakfast he and Thursday went to town, while Steve and Sid rode east to see how the waterholes were on that side of the range.

One Hop fixed up a nice breakfast for Bill McGill, and Mary took it over to the dugout. He was usually watching for her, but this morning he was not in evidence. She called to him as she went through the open door, but no voice answered her.

Bill McGill was gone!

Mary went outside and looked around, but there was no sign of the boy. She went slowly back to the kitchen. She was satisfied that Bill had broken faith with her—and Hashknife.

“Wha’samalla?” queried One Hop, noting the returned breakfast.

“He’s gone.”

“He go way all time now?”

“I guess so, Hop. They’ll probably catch him and hang him.”

“I guess so. Not much blains, eh?”

“That must be it.”

Pink Lowry had a triumphant expression in his eyes when Thursday told him about the missing horse and saddle. On account of the bump on his head, Pink was wearing his sombrero at a rakish angle. While Thursday and the sheriff talked about the stolen outfit, Pink went on a hunt for Sleepy, found him in the War Paint and took him aside.

“See that?” Pink removed his hat and pointed to the bump.

“Somebody hit you?” asked Sleepy.

“Bill McGill.”

“Aw—”

“I tell you he did. And I’ll betcha four bits it was him that stole your horse. The danged pup laid for me and busted my head. He shore put me to sleep.”

“I can’t believe that Bill would hit anybody.”

“You see that bump, don’tcha?”

“Them ain’t Bill’s initials on it.”

“Well, who else would hit me?”

“I’m no mind reader. Ain’t you got no enemy, except Bill McGill?”

“None that would lay for me with a club.”

Sleepy decided that Pink was all wrong about Bill McGill. He and Thursday rode back to the ranch a little later.

“I don’t like this here saddle a-tall,” declared Thursday.

“I don’t like this horse,” grinned Sleepy, “but he’s got four legs.”

“That’s prob’ly the last we’ll ever see of our horse and saddle. The sheriff can’t do anythin’.”

“You didn’t expect he’d make a house to house canvass of the county, didja?”

It was nearly dinner time when they got back. Sleepy found Mary alone on the front porch and told her what Pink said about being hit over the head.

“And he thinks Bill McGill hit him,” laughed Sleepy. “Prob’ly walked into a post in the dark. And he offered to bet that Bill took my horse and Thursday’s saddle.”

Mary did not smile, and Sleepy noticed how serious she was.

“There might be some truth in it,” she said slowly.

“What do you mean? Ain’t Bill—”

“He’s gone, Sleepy.”

“Well, the danged horsethief! After all you’ve done—”

“That part is all right. If only he won’t get caught.”

“He sure won’t—if I get my hands on him first.”

“Don’t tell Thursday anything about it.”

“I shore won’t. Well, well! Bill McGill! You never can tell which way a dill pickle is goin’ to squirt.”

* * * * *

It was about nine o’clock that night when Hashknife rode to Cinnabar and dismounted at a vacant hitch-rack near a small saloon. Hashknife had decided not to stay all night in the town, if the same man was in charge of the hotel.

But there was a new proprietor. This one was stooped, rather gray, with a hard face and cruel mouth. Hashknife inquired about the former proprietor, and the man said that Matt Daley had left the country.

“I bought him out. Want a room?”

Hashknife nodded, and the man showed him a room on the second floor, after which Hashknife stabled his own horse. He knew he was taking a chance again, but was sure the new man did not suspect him of being the one responsible for Matt Daley’s flight. Hashknife inspected the rest of the main street, but saw no one he knew. In fact, there was hardly any one around the town that evening.

He went up to his room, undressed and went to bed; but the building had absorbed so much heat during the day that it was like a furnace, even with the window open. The partitions were thin, the door warped so badly that he could hear any sound from any part of the house.

A man came in and talked with the proprietor for awhile and was shown a room across the hall near the stairway. Hashknife could not distinguish any voices. Finally the proprietor went down the stairs, his boots creaking an accompaniment to the groans of the stairs.

Hashknife kicked all the covers off and rolled a cigarette. From far off came the bawling of a cow, answered by several more in chorus. He rubbed the fire from his cigarette against the floor and tried to go to sleep.

He was just on the borderland of slumber when he heard more voices downstairs, laughing and talking. He was wide awake now, as their voices came clearly.

“Hello, Sims, you old son of a gun! Since when didja start runnin’ a hotel?”

“Where’s old Matt?”

“He left here. Howdy, boys. What brings you over here?”

“None of your business. Have you seen Ed and Jack around here today?”

“Ain’t seen ’em for a week.”

“They was to meet us here tonight.”

Hashknife sat up, listening closely. Ed and Jack were the names of the two cowboys who had tried to bilk Bill McGill in High Grade.

“How’re you fixed for somethin’ to eat, Sims?”

“Reckon I can fix you up a snack. Stayin’ with me tonight?”

“Damn’ right. Got stable room for three good horses?”

“Shore—plenty room. Go right ahead, and I’ll cook some steaks. How do you like ’em?”

“Plenty dead,” laughed a voice. “Git us some bottle beer, will you?”

“Got plenty, but it ain’t awful cold.”

“All right.”

“Match you to see who puts up the broncs.”

“All right.”

The question was finally settled and one man went out, grumbling at his bad luck. There were more cows bawling. Hashknife sat up and rolled another cigarette. There were voices downstairs, but Hashknife could not make out what was being said. From the kitchen came the rattling of pans.

“Hello, waddies!” The voice evidently came from the front doorway.

“Hello, Jack! How are you, Eddie? Been lookin’ for you.”

“Hello, Sam. How’s tricks?”

That was Eddie and Jack, the two crooks from High Grade, decided Hashknife. He recognized the whining voice of Eddie. There was a murmur, and then came the voice of the man who had gone out to put up the horses:

“Where’s Sims? Hey, Sims, c’mere.”

“He’s fryin’ steaks, you bat-eared—”

“Damn the steaks! C’mere, Sims.”

Sims came.

“Who owns that sorrel in the stable, Sims?”

“Oh, that one? Belongs to a feller who came here a while ago. He’s upstairs asleep.”

The man dropped his voice, and there was a rumble of low pitched conversation. Then:

“You’re allus seein’ boogers. Them fellers are in Willer Wells.”

“Don’t I know the brand?”

“Sh-h-h! Don’t yell. What room’s he in, Sims?”

“First one to the left of the stairs. What’s all this about?”

“Never mind. You cook them steaks.”

Hashknife was dressing swiftly now. He went to the open window and looked out. He could see the stable in the moonlight. Sliding over the sill, he stretched out to his full length and dropped. He struck yielding sand, fell to his knees, got up quickly and went toward the stable.

Stopping at the door, he looked toward the hotel, but no one was coming. He stepped inside and scratched a match. In the first stall was Sleepy’s sorrel. It was quite a shock to Hashknife to see that horse in Cinnabar, but he quickly untied it, got his gray and led both outside. Off behind the stable, possibly a hundred yards away, was a dense clump of mesquite, and as quickly as possible he tied the two horses behind this cover.

He had not waited to get the saddles. Accordingly, he went back and got them. He noticed that it was not Sleepy’s rig, and wondered if he had taken somebody else’s by mistake. He felt better now. If it came to a case of getting away fast, he would not have to enter the stable.

* * * * *

He circled around to the right side of the hotel and found a flight of stairs on the outside, leading to the second floor. He went up cautiously and found the door unlocked. Taking off his boots, he went slowly down the hallway to the door of his room, which he had locked from the inside.

There seemed to be considerable commotion below, so he sneaked over to the head of the stairs. There was the odor of cooking steaks and boiling coffee.

“Where’d you git that horse? That’s what we want to know.”

“I do not know.”

Hashknife almost gasped aloud. It was the voice of Bill McGill.

“Don’t be so damn’ ignorant, tenderfoot. Remember me, don’tcha?”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

“Well, you’re worth a thousand dollars in Willer Wells, and we’re shore goin’ to collect. Where have you been all this time?”

“That is my business, sir.”

“Don’t git sassy or I’ll bust your nose. I owe you that much.”

“Aw, let him alone.”

“Don’t make so much noise—” it was Sims’ voice. “I’ve got another sleeper upstairs.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” The voice was angry. “Who is he?”

“I never seen him before.”

“What does he look like, Sims?”

They were talking cautiously now.

“Tall, skinny jasper, ridin’ a gray horse.”

“My Gawd!” blurted one of them.

“Sims, you danged fool! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I was busy cookin’ steaks and I didn’t think—”

There came a volley of whispers, and a man went out, evidently heading for the stable.

“Damn the steaks!” said one man, loud enough for Hashknife to hear. “My appetite has been ruined.”

The man came back, running, and panted softly—

“The sorrel is gone, and so is the gray, if the gray ever was there.”

“Heard us and got out.”

“See if he’s in his room.”

Hashknife stepped cautiously into Bill McGill’s room, which was in darkness, and several men went down the hall to his room, where they knocked boldly.

“Jumped out the winder,” grunted one. “Gimme a little help.” Hashknife heard them throw their weight against the flimsy lock, which broke. After a few moments they came back out, cursing Sims.

“Well, we’ve got that tenderfoot,” said one.

“Yeah, if that’s any satisfaction. I’m shore scared to go back now.”

“Aw, he didn’t see any of us.”

“How do you know?”

They went down the stairs, and Hashknife sneaked back to his own room. He wanted to decide what to do next. It was true that he had not seen any of the men, and he wondered why one of them should say he would be afraid to go back. Was it any crime to come to Cinnabar, he wondered.

It was several minutes before he heard anything more, and then the men were coming back up the stairs. He slid half out of the window, ready to jump again if any of them came to his door; but they did not. He could hear them plainly, now.

“He won’t get loose. When I tie ’em, they stay tied. Let’s eat.”

They tramped down the stairs again, and Hashknife went back to the hall. The door of Bill’s room was open. Hashknife moved cautiously and he found the boy tightly bound, lying on the bed. Hashknife pawed him over until he found Bill’s head, and whispered softly:

“Keep your mouth shut, Bill. This is Hashknife.”

“Good evening,” said Bill weakly.

“Not so very good, but danged interestin’,” whispered Hashknife, as he unfastened the ropes and helped the boy to his feet.

He cautioned Bill against making any noise, and they went out to the back door and down the steps. They did not stop until they were out to the horses. Bill sat down on the ground, while Hashknife squatted on his heels.

“Go ahead and talk about it,” encouraged Hashknife. “What are you doin’ over here, and where didja get Sleepy’s horse?”

“I really don’t understand it all myself. I’ve really been muddled. I think it was last night when something struck me.”

“An idea?”

“Not at all. I had been standing outside the dugout door, looking at the moonlight, when I saw a man over near the stable. He seemed to be acting rather queerly. He seemed to be trying to see without being seen. I distinctly saw him sneak up and peer through the window of the bunkhouse, where I could hear someone playing a string instrument.

“The man went from there almost to the house, but at that moment someone came out on the front porch, and the man came back to the stable. He seemed to be carrying a gun—a rifle, perhaps. Then one of the boys came from the bunkhouse and went to the stable. I rather lost track of this other man, as he had disappeared in the shadow.

“I came out a little farther, but could not see him; so I sat down on the ground for awhile. The other man went back from the stable and entered the bunkhouse. Finally I got up, turned to go back into the dugout, and the man was right behind me, his face in the shadow. He asked me who I was and I—I—”

“You said William Allen McGill.”

“Oh, no. I said Bill McGill. And he struck me with something. If it were light enough I would let you look at my head. I’m afraid the swelling will never go down.

“The next thing I knew, I found myself tied to a saddle. Really, I was so sick I could hardly hold up my head, but I could not fall off because of the ropes. It seemed as though I rode for hours and hours before we stopped. It was still dark, but the man had a cloth over his face. He untied me and let me off the horse. I sank right down on the ground and I never was so grateful for anything in my life.

“He said to me, ‘It will soon be daylight. You get on your horse and follow this road and don’t never come back here again.’ He called me names that will not bear repeating, but I was too sick to resent them. I did not get on my horse at daylight. I tied the animal to a bush, stretched out and stayed there nearly all day.

“It was almost night when I finally mounted the horse again, and within an hour I was here. I remembered the place, but I was too miserable, hungry and worried to care what place it was. The man gave me some canned beans, bread and coffee. Then I went to bed. I suppose you know the rest.”

“Did you recognize any of the men who roped you in there?”

“Just one—the man who arrested me in High Grade.”

“Nick Lee of the Diamond R, eh?”

“Yes. They were going to take me back to Willow Wells and get the reward.”

“What are they doin’ over here?”

“I asked Mr. Lee that identical question, and he slapped me across the mouth. Some day I shall—”

“Better let it out on shares, Bill. Lee’s a salty gent.”

Hashknife untied the horses and they both mounted. As far as they could see, everything was serene at the hotel; but Hashknife knew the gang would be rather excited to find that their captive was not where they left him. They traveled north out of town for a short distance, and then cut across to the east to strike the old road to Willow Wells, but found their way blocked by a barbed wire fence. Investigating as well as he could in the dark, by riding along the fence, Hashknife decided that the wire enclosed about twenty acres of land, and that there was an opening on the east side, guarded only by three long poles.

Cows bawled softly. Hashknife could make out several dark shapes. Leaving Bill outside the bars, Hashknife rode in and moved among the cattle. The light was very bad, but the cowboy estimated that there were at least a hundred head within that enclosure. He slowly herded some of them into a corner, where he leaned as close as possible and scratched a match.

A wild-eyed steer moved back, not over five feet away, and by the light of the match Hashknife plainly saw a six pointed star vent brand on its left shoulder and a Diamond R on its left hip. Both brands were fresh. Hashknife knew now what it was all about. The Diamond R was stealing cattle in Willow Valley and bringing them over to Cinnabar to Ed Reese and Jack Erb for disposal. This would give the Diamond R boys a chance to get back to their ranch before morning.

Hashknife rode back to the bars, pondering deeply. There were at least three of the Diamond R—Ed Reese, Jack Erb, and the man Sims, who owned the hotel. Sims would naturally side with his friends. Hashknife knew that Bill McGill would be of no assistance to him, and he did not feel like tackling five men single-handed. By this time they would have discovered the loss of their thousand dollars’ worth of prisoner and be on guard.

“We’re goin’ back to the Pelliser ranch,” he told Bill. “I don’t like fightin’ with cattle rustlers in the dark, so we’ll hightail it for home. We’ll get back there about four o’clock in the mornin’, if we can keep on that old road in the dark. If them clouds break away and give us some moonlight, we’ll make it earlier. C’mon.”

“I shall be pleased to get back,” said Bill. “I don’t know what Mary thinks of me, going away without even saying goodby. But really, I had nothing to say about the matter. I hope she will understand.”

“Leave it to Mary. She’s got a lot of _sabe_ for a girl.”

“I don’t know what that word means, but she is wonderful.”

“Means the same thing. You give that bronc his head and he’ll stick to the trail. All you have to do is set there and ride.”

“And that,” said Bill painfully, “is quite enough to keep me out of mischief.”