Chapter XVI: Pink Goes Calling

Pink Lowry came out that evening. Perhaps he came to gloat over what Bill McGill had done to his erstwhile friends. Pink had forgiven Bill the wallop over the head. He was willing to forgive Bill anything, as long as he stayed out of Willow Valley.

Mary was a little sad over the whole affair, but tried to hide it. She and Sleepy had discussed Bill, and Sleepy greatly desired Bill’s scalp for stealing his horse. He also desired Bill’s scalp for betraying Mary’s friendship. As far as Pink’s sore head was concerned—Sleepy had no interest in Pink Lowry.

“Dad says he will give you another horse,” Mary told him.

“Yeah, I know all about that. It’s shore square of him, but I like that sorrel bronc. I hate to be stolen from by a tenderfoot.”

Pink and Mary talked about Bill after her father went to bed. Steve was just a trifle curious as to why Pink came out there two nights in succession, and had stopped at the head of the stairs. He liked Pink, and he was not going to interfere with any love making, but he stopped long enough to hear Pink say:

“Well, my head is pretty sore, Mary, but what makes me more sore than the busted head is the fact that he throwed you down.”

“You have to make allowances for Bill,” said Mary. “He’s not like the men out here. He doesn’t think the way we do. My opinion is that Bill got so frightened he had to leave, and he didn’t stop to consider the ethics of the case at all. He likes Sleepy, and I’m sure there was nothing malicious about his taking Sleepy’s horse. Hashknife had a long talk with Bill, and he frightened Bill.”

“That’s all right,” grinned Pink, “but there _was_ somethin’ malicious about the way he slapped me over the head in the stable.”

“Another case of fright. You surprised him when he was taking the horse.”

“Well, he shore surprised me.”

Steve went to his room, where he sat down to puzzle it out. Now he knew Mary, Pink, Hashknife and Sleepy had been hiding Bill McGill somewhere on the ranch. Bill had struck Pink over the head, taken Sleepy’s horse and Thursday’s saddle. Thursday probably did not know anything about it. That is, he had no hand in the affair. But why were they hiding Bill? There was a thousand dollar reward for Bill, and Pink Lowry, the deputy sheriff, was helping to shield him. He wondered what it was all about.

He smoked in his room until he heard Pink leave, and then went down the stairs to meet Mary. She seemed greatly surprised to see him. He did not beat around the bush at all, but came right to the point. Mary turned a little white, but was rather defiant.

“He—he came out here that night,” she said. “Hashknife was with me, and we—he knew they’d hang Bill. We hid him in the dugout, where he has been ever since. Hashknife—”

“Hashknife was at the bottom of it, eh?”

“Do you want to see Bill McGill hanged, Dad?”

Steve’s face was very grim, but he shook his head negatively. Then—

“You ain’t stuck on Bill McGill, are you, Mary?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“He’s stuck on you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, couldn’t I see it? When he looks at you he looks like a bogged calf. I’m not blind. So he’s gone, eh? Stole a horse and a saddle, did he? Hm-m-m. Well, I’ll gladly replace the horse and saddle, if he’ll never come back.”

“But, Dad, they’ll catch and hang him.”

“He’s nothing to you, is he?”

“Well, I don’t want to see him hanged. Hashknife says—”

“Oh, dang Hashknife! Where is he?”

“You know as much as I do.”

“I suppose I do. When he shows up I’m goin’ to fire him. There’s been nothin’ but trouble around here since he came. I’ll fire Sleepy and him and hire a couple of ignorant cowboys.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m goin’ to, just the same. You go to bed, Mary.”

It was about four o’clock in the morning when Hashknife and Bill reached the ranch. Bill went back to his dugout, and Hashknife, rather than disturb the boys in the bunkhouse, climbed up into the hay loft and went to sleep. And it was Thursday who discovered the return of Sleepy’s sorrel. He went whooping around to the bunkhouse and yelled the news. Steve was on the back porch; he came down to the stable.

“That’s my sorrel all right,” declared Sleepy. “And there’s Hashknife’s gray!”

“That’s right,” snorted Sid Brayton. “But where on earth did _that_ saddle come from?”

“Who wants to know?” grunted Hashknife, peering down through the hayhole in the stable ceiling.

“C’mon down here and talk about it,” laughed Sleepy; and Hashknife came down to them.

He looked keenly at Steve, wishing him far away from there just at that time.

“Hyah, boys,” he said. “How’s everythin’ around here?”

“Where in the world didja find my horse and that saddle?”

“Oh, yea-a-ah.” Hashknife rubbed his nose and looked at the saddle. It was well made, nicely stamped, and had only been broken in.

“My saddle’s missin’,” said Thursday, “and that shore ain’t mine.”

“It shore ain’t,” agreed Sid heartily. “Yours was an old kack, while this’n’s a reg’lar hull.”

“I’d like to talk with you alone, Hartley,” said Steve.

“Oh, shore.” Hashknife nodded and they walked around to the corral.

“Where did you find Sleepy’s horse?” asked Steve.

“Cinnabar.”

“Found Bill McGill, too, eh?”

Hashknife simulated surprise.

“I found the sorrel and a saddle. It was too dark, and I was in too much of a hurry to examine the saddle.”

“Yeah? What were you doin’ in Cinnabar?”

“Comin’ back through there from Santa Dolores.”

“Santa Dolores, eh?” Steve picked at a splinter on the fence. “What’s the idea of goin’ to Santa Dolores?”

“Didja ever do any trailin’ with hounds, Steve?”

“No, I never did.”

“Well, if you ever do, and you lose the trail, try back. I’m tryin’ a long ways back to pick up a cold trail. And I want to tell you somethin’ more; there was at least three Diamond R punchers at Cinnabar, and inside a twenty-acre wire fenced patch there was at least a hundred steers wearin’ a six-pointed star vent on their left shoulders.”

Steve’s face went black and he walked several yards away from Hashknife, his hands clenched. Coming back, he leaned against the fence, his eyes half closed.

“A hundred head, eh? How could they get away with a deal like that?”

“Bunch ’em at this side of the hills, take ’em through in less than a day, turn ’em over to men on that side and get back here before mornin’.”

“Did you _see_ any of those men?”

“Nope. I only heard their voices and somethin’ of what they said.”

“But you didn’t see any of ’em?”

“I did not.”

“Can you swear they were SP cattle and that the Diamond R took them across the old road to Cinnabar?”

“I can swear to the vented brands, that’s all. The old road is cut up by tracks, all headin’ west.”

“Have you told any one else about this?”

“Not a soul.”

“Don’t. I’ll handle it in my own way. Better come up and eat breakfast.”

* * * * *

Sleepy was curious to know what had happened to Hashknife, and after breakfast the tall puncher told him all about it.

“You tell Mary that Bill is in the dug-out again,” said Hashknife. “I’m afraid to because I’ve got a hunch that Steve suspects it. He’s watchin’ me pretty close.”

“But what about them stolen cows? Don’t we salivate the Diamond R?”

Hashknife told him what Steve had ordered.

“Well, I’ll keep it under my hat, of course,” agreed Sleepy. “But jist the same, I don’t _sabe_ the deal, especially that them Diamond R cow thieves know you were at Cinnabar. They’ll try to get you, pardner.”

“Yeah, that’s a bad feature. Still, there’s nothin’ to be done. We don’t know whether them were SP cows or HN cows. They both brand on the left shoulder, you know.”

“Don’tcha think Hoddy Noon ought to know about it?”

“Let Steve tell him.”

“Oh, all right. I’m sick of this stuff, anyway.”

“I’m gettin’ kinda sick myself, Sleepy.”

For the next couple of days Hashknife waited to see what Steve was going to do, and as far as he was able to determine, Pelliser did nothing. Steve had not been to town, nor had he sent any word to Hoddy Noon about the vented cattle. Hashknife was disgusted over the affair. He broke his word with Steve and went out to the HN ranch, where he told Uncle Hoddy the whole story.

“And Steve won’t do anythin’?” queried Hoddy indignantly. “That’s a fine way to do. By golly, I’ll do somethin’. I’ll keep cases on that Diamond R outfit and if I find an animal with a vented left shoulder brand, I’ll shore inoculate some of them jaspers against dyin’ of old age.”

“I broke my word with Steve to let you know, Noon.”

“That ain’t breakin’ no word, Hartley. What’s wrong with Steve? Don’t never come over here any more, nor nothin’. I meet him in town, and he ain’t like he used to be. He ain’t drinkin’, is he? No? Mebbe he ain’t drinkin’ enough. Well, I won’t tell him what you said, but I’m much obliged.”

Hashknife felt that he had done his duty, and he did not think Hoddy would tell Steve; but he did not consider the fact that Hoddy might get drunk—which Hoddy did. He came to town that afternoon with Caliente and Piute. They rode in from the range, so that Aunt Ida would not suspect them of being in town, and inside of an hour they were as drunk as the proverbial boiled owls.

Hashknife was with Pink at the office and did not even know they were in town until Dud Evans wandered in and said that Hoddy and Steve were having a great argument over something.

“Uncle Hoddy’s shore drunk and vociferous,” laughed Evans.

Hashknife had a feeling that all was not well, and a little later he met Steve in front of a general merchandise store. Steve was angry and he showed it in every line of his face.

“You’re fired,” he told Hashknife coldly. “Get your stuff and your pardner off the ranch. Here’s what I owe the both of you. You went out and told Hoddy Noon, didn’t you? That’s fine. You promised to keep your mouth shut, which you didn’t. And I want you to understand that I know all about that Bill McGill deal. You kept him hidden in a dugout on my place. If the truth were known, you took that sorrel horse, sneaked Bill out of the country and then came back. Now, I’m all through with you.”

“It’s a wonder to me that you didn’t turn detective.” Hashknife grinned. “You shore figure things out. But gettin’ fired is all right. I don’t want to work for a man who don’t care who steals his cows.”

“That part of it is _my_ business, Hartley.”

“Well, every man to his own trade.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean just what I said. Any man who will let another man steal from him and not make any effort to stop it, is as bad as the thief. And when you keep the information from Noon, who might own part of those misbranded steers, you shore _are_ as bad as the thief! Think that over, Pelliser!”

Hashknife turned on his heel and went across the street to the hitch-rack, where he mounted his horse and started back to the ranch. He was a little over a mile from town, riding loosely in his saddle, thinking deeply, when a sudden shock seemed to strike his tall gray horse. The animal went down in a jerking heap, while from somewhere came the rattling echo of a rifle shot.

Hashknife barely escaped being pinned by the falling horse, which was only down for a moment. It struggled back to its feet and Hashknife saw the red mark on its neck where the bullet had creased just above the neck bone. Hashknife was a little dazed by the fall, lying on his side, gun in hand. Someone was coming through the brush. Hashknife tried to swing the gun around, but his arm seemed paralyzed. He had struck his elbow in the fall, and his whole arm seemed asleep. Quickly he rolled over on his face, both hands beneath his chest.

He heard footsteps in the dusty road; then he was gripped roughly as his would-be assassins tried to turn him over. Hashknife came to life suddenly.

He grasped the man’s feet in both hands and fairly yanked him off the ground. It was done so quickly that the gunman did not have a chance to save himself. In a flurry of dust both men were on their feet, locked together. Hashknife towered above his antagonist as they grappled for holds. Things were happening in split seconds of time.

Suddenly the man went limp in Hashknife’s arms, and another shot echoed through the hills. Hashknife dropped to his knees and eased his attacker to the ground. They were well below the tops of the brush. Hashknife picked up his gun, took one look at the man’s face and darted into the cover.

It was Jack Erb, the broken nosed cowboy from High Grade and Cinnabar. Hashknife worked his way farther into the brush, waiting for Erb’s companion to appear. Hashknife grinned grimly to himself, realizing that Erb had been hit by a bullet intended for himself.

“Find the man who thinks he’s a crack shot,” said Hashknife to himself, “and that will prob’ly be this feller’s pardner.”

Hashknife spent a long time trying to get a line on the shooter, but could not locate him. He found Ghost down in a brushy swale, got on him and headed for the ranch, taking a long detour. The gray horse was not seriously injured. The bullet had seared across his neck, shocking him badly for a few moments, but drawing little blood.

“That jigger shoots low,” observed Hashknife. “Shot low on me when I was on the horse, and shot low when me and Broken Nose was wrestlin’. He better get his sights raised.”