Chapter XIX: The End of the Trail

Pink ate supper at the Pelliser ranch that evening. He wanted to talk with Mary about Bill McGill, but Steve stayed close to them, and it did not seem that he was going to get a chance. Thursday Adams and Sid Brayton drew a little money from Steve and went to town before supper. Pink had hoped Steve Pelliser would decide to visit town that evening, but the rancher seemed content to stay home. Steve had changed much in a short time. He did not smile any more, and the lines of his face had deepened. Mary was worried.

“Funny about Uncle Hoddy havin’ Scotty McGowan arrested for misbrandin’ cattle,” observed Pink as they ate supper. “That’s the trouble when two outfits brand the same spot. It ended all right, but Uncle Hoddy ain’t satisfied. Too much chance for the Diamond R to slip that six pointed star on some HN beef. I don’t blame him.”

Steve remained silent, his eyes troubled.

“And the bushwhackin’ of Jack Erb,” continued Pink. “Queer thing, if you didn’t know Jack Erb. He’s crooked. Mebbe that ain’t the right thing to say about a dyin’ man—yeah, the doctor says he can’t live—but I know Jack’s got a bad rep. Somebody slammed him with a hot bullet, that’s a cinch.”

“I’ll betcha Ed Reese knowed who done the shootin’, but he pulled his freight pretty quick. I told Dud he was a fool to let Ed get away, ’cause it was a ten to one bet that Ed knowed who fired the shot. I had kind of a hunch that Jack had tangled with Hashknife Hartley, but Hashknife don’t pack a .30-30. Hashknife had a run-in with them over in High Grade before he came here—helpin’ out Bill McGill over there.”

“There has been a lot of trouble around here lately,” said Mary softly. “Willow Valley has always been so peaceful.”

“Well, it ain’t peaceful no more. Hashknife and Scotty almost smoked up the War Paint last night. Scotty got drunk and tried to bust up a pool game, but Hashknife upset him with a billiard cue. I dunno just how it was done, but I reckon it was kinda slick. Hurt Scotty’s right shoulder. Scotty shot off his face a little, and then Hashknife shore called him plenty. Them two are goin’ to throw lead one of these days.”

“I’ll bet on Hashknife,” said Mary.

“All depends on the breaks. They’ve both got plenty nerve.”

“What are they quarrelin’ over?” asked Steve, showing a little interest.

“I dunno. Somethin’ has made Scotty dislike Hashknife. Mebbe he’s scared of Hashknife. He knows that Hashknife told Hoddy Noon about the misbranded cattle. Or—” Pink corrected himself quickly—“the cattle he thought was misbranded.”

“What is your personal opinion of Hashknife?” asked Steve.

“He’s got me guessin’,” laughed Pink. “I don’t _sabe_ him. Dud was tellin’ me about a telegram Hashknife sent to the penitentiary, askin’ for information about a man who robbed somebody in Santa Dolores twenty years ago. Feller named Nolan, or somethin’ like that.”

“He was at Santa Dolores,” said Mary. “He told me he had been there.”

“What does he want that information for?” queried Steve.

“I dunno. Queer, ain’t it?”

They got up from the table and went into the front room. Pink was wishing that Steve would decide to make himself scarce, because he wanted to ask Mary if she knew Bill McGill was back again. Steve filled his pipe and smoked moodily, taking no part in the conversation. Finally Steve arose and went up the stairs to his own room.

“I wanted to tell you somethin’,” said Pink cautiously, “and I didn’t want your Dad to hear it. Bill McGill is back again.”

“How do you know?” asked Mary quickly.

“I found him between here and Willow Wells last night.”

Mary knew it, but she did not tell Pink.

“I knew you folks was through with him, so I tied him to the horse and took him back to town. But—” Pink smiled sourly—“somebody swiped him from me. Dud thinks I’m crazy when I insist I had him.”

“Why, who took him?”

“I dunno, but I’ve got a hunch that Hashknife had a hand in it. Where he took Bill McGill, I’ve no idea. I ain’t sure he took him, of course.”

“It is all very mysterious,” said Mary, masking a smile.

“I should say it is. If I ever get my hands on—”

The scrape of footsteps sounded on the front porch and the door rattled under heavy knocking.

Mary stepped over and opened the door. It was Scotty McGowan, panting just a little, his face drawn and serious. He stepped inside, paying no attention to Mary or Pink.

“I want to see Steve,” he said harshly.

“He’s upstairs,” said Mary. “I’ll call him if you—”

“I’ll go up to see him,” growled Scotty, and started for the stairs; but Steve had heard him and was coming down. Scotty stopped at the bottom of the steps. Pink got to his feet, wondering what was wrong with Scotty.

Steve came down, looking curiously at Scotty.

“What’s wrong?” asked Steve.

“I can’t tell you here.”

Scotty looked at Pink but did not speak. He turned to Steve.

“Better go outside, I reckon.”

The door was wide open and as they turned, Smith, the man with the scarred face, was in the doorway, hunched forward, a leer on his crooked lips.

“What do you want?” growled Scotty, his hand dropping back toward the butt of his gun.

Perhaps Scotty had no intention of drawing a gun. He and Smith had never had any trouble. Again, Scotty might have been startled to see Smith, whom he had left in Willow Wells.

* * * * *

At any rate, as Scotty’s hand swung back, Smith’s right hand shot forward with a big black Colt. The room shuddered from the explosion of the .45 cartridge. Scotty jerked half around, clawed at the empty air and went down in a heap as Smith sprang forward, the gun cocked again.

It swayed toward Pink, whose hands went up, jerked back to Steve and steadied.

The leer was gone from Smith’s face now. In its place was the drawn mask of hate, the half-closed eyes of a snake.

“Pray, you damn’ thief!” said Smith. “Pray quick, if you know a prayer!”

Smith came a little closer, his knuckles white on the grip of that big gun, his teeth bared in a snarl.

“Pray!” he whispered tensely. “Say it quick, you lyin’ thief!”

“Smith!”

The word snapped and Smith whirled like a trapped wolf, shooting as he whirled. Two reports sounded as one as Hashknife’s gun flicked flame through the smoke of Smith’s first shot.

Smith tried to lift the gun, but it seemed to weigh a ton. His arm sagged down, the gun fell from his fingers and he went to his knees, sprawling, still reaching for it.

Pink still had his hands up. Mary was swaying, her eyes shut, when Hashknife caught her by the shoulder.

“For God’s sake get this girl out of here, Pink!” he snapped.

Pink jerked back to realization. There did not seem anything incongruous in ordering a deputy sheriff to leave the scene of a shooting. Pink took Mary by the arm and they both stumbled out through the kitchen.

“My God!” breathed Steve, relaxing a little.

Hashknife knelt down and turned Smith over. He was conscious and seemed to know he was at the end of things.

“Fell down on the job, didn’t I?” he said jerkily.

“You did, Neal,” said Hashknife.

The scar faced man smiled thinly.

“Knew me, eh?”

“Guessed you, Neal.”

“But why did you want to kill me?” asked Steve wonderingly.

“Why? Damn’ you, you and Hart stole all that money! You never made good your promise, you dirty thief. You kept the kids, too. Oh, I heard from Denver. You never sent a penny. I tried to break jail and get you both, but they stopped us and I served all my time. I killed Hart and robbed his bank, and I was goin’ to get you.”

Steve’s face was white, drawn.

“You—you are Spike?”

“What’s left of him—yes.”

“You—you didn’t die that—”

“Damn’ you, of course I didn’t die. They gave me twenty years, and you got the gold.”

“We didn’t, Spike. No, no! We never got the gold. We never had a cent to send to Denver; never had money enough to send the kids, so we kept ’em. Mary—she’s one. She don’t know it. Ed sent the other to—”

“I know,” interrupted Neal. “They—Scotty led the lynchers that night, but I was ahead of ’em and turned him loose. I—I came out here to kill you, and found him in the dugout; so I stole a horse and took him out of the Valley—but the fool came back. You say you—never got the gold?”

“Not a cent of it.”

Neal closed his eyes and they thought he was gone. Steve was trembling, his lips twitching, as he looked down at Neal, who opened his eyes.

“It’s all right, Steve,” he said painfully. “Clears everythin’. Sorry about Hart. The money is in straw-tick in my bunk. The kids—wasn’t mine. Their father was killed in a blast—mother died when girl was born. I—I promised to take care of ’em—stole to do it. They’re good stock—mavericks, both of ’em. Jim McGowan was sheriff—he knew. Scotty knew. I—I talked about you—when I was sick before the trial. Scotty didn’t know me. They’re stealin’ your cattle because they know you don’t dare kick.”

Neal stopped for breath, his eyelids growing heavy.

“Sorry,” he panted. “Lived a tough life, but it’s all right. Mavericks, both of ’em, but good blood. Jist mav—”

Hashknife got slowly to his feet and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. They were looking at each other when a voice broke the stillness.

“What was the shooting all about this evening?”

It was Bill McGill. He was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide as he looked through the smoke at the two men on the floor. Steve stared at him, wonderingly. Sleepy stepped over and looked at Scotty, shook his head sadly and leaned against the wall, rolling a cigarette. Pink and Mary came back, coughing a little in the smoke.

“I—I couldn’t keep her out any longer,” said Pink.

“It’s too bad you wasn’t here,” said Hashknife. “Smith confessed to the killin’ of Ed Hart and the robbery of the bank.”

“He did? Can you imagine that? What was the matter with him? Why did he want to kill Steve?”

“Loco,” said Hashknife softly. “I reckon that kickin’ he got at the War Paint hitch-rack that night busted somethin’ in his head. He kinda blamed Steve ’cause Steve owned the horse, I reckon. Anyway, it’s all cleared up. I dunno why he killed Scotty, unless it was ’cause Scotty tried to pull a gun.”

“Can you imagine that?” breathed Pink. “And Bill McGill is free?”

“Free as the air. It was a verbal confession, but there was three of us to hear it. He even told where he hid the money.”

“You say I—that there is no charge against me?” queried Bill McGill.

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“You’re free, Bill.”

“Thank you kindly. I’m really all fed up on dugouts and having guns thrust in my ribs. Still, it was experience. I suppose there is no reason for my staying longer?”

“Bill,” said Steve, his voice trembling a little, “would you like to stay in this country and learn the cattle business?”

“I—er—well, I don’t know. I suppose a man must learn something.”

“The bank has a mortgage on the Diamond R,” said Steve. “I think I can buy it out—the mortgage. There are no McGowans left. Perhaps I can buy the ranch at a reasonable figure; and if you want a job, Bill—”

“Thanks, Mr. Pelliser. But no one has told me what the shooting was all about, don’t you see?”

“Bill,” replied Hashknife softly, “when you’re in Arizona, don’t ask questions.”

“And I think,” said Steve slowly, “that we’ll have a marriage here at the ranch in a short time.”

He looked at Mary and Pink, who looked at each other foolishly.

“That’s gug—great!” blurted Pink. “I—I think I better go and get the sheriff now.”

“Take it easy,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ll send him out.”

He and Sleepy headed for the front door, and Steve followed them outside, where they mounted their horses.

“Hashknife,” he said softly, “I don’t know what to say. Man, you’ve—”

“That’s all right, Steve. Everythin’ is cleared up.”

“Cleared up? Man, the weight of the world is off my shoulders. If I get that Diamond R ranch, won’t you run it for me? I need you both.”

“I’d like to, Steve, but it ain’t in us to stay still very long. We’ve both been wonderin’ what’s on the other side of the hill. Take care of Bill McGill. He’s all right—jist ignorant from ingrown education. See you later.”

* * * * *

They rode away, knee to knee, heading down the moonlit road over which they had ridden so furiously.

“Funny case, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Had me whipped for a long time. I went to work on the theory that Pink didn’t kill McGowan. I studied it a long time, and this is how I figured it out. McGowan wanted to marry Mary Pelliser. Steve kicked. They were down near the stable that night when McGowan told Steve he knew he was one of the men who helped Spike Neal rob that stage. It meant that Steve was in McGowan’s power. Steve shot McGowan. They shot together, Steve’s body maskin’ the flash of his own gun from Pink, who was in line with ’em.

“Pink’s shot never hit anythin’. The Chinaman saw three flashes. He didn’t admit it, but I knew danged well he saw ’em. Pelliser loves Mary, and he’d fight to keep her from knowin’ that she wasn’t his daughter. As soon as I worked out that theory—of course, I didn’t know what McGowan had on Pelliser—I went to work on the killin’ of Hart. Bill McGill was out of the question. He fell down and accidentally fired that shot.

“I knew that one man turned Bill loose ahead of the lynchers, and my job was to puzzle out who that one man might be. It was somebody who knew of the proposed lynchin’, and I figured Scotty was in on that deal. Then came the bank robbery. One masked man. The letter Bill McGill had was signed Ed. That was the name of Hart, who was murdered.

“Caliente Smith told me about the stage robbery near Santa Dolores, in which one man was shot and the rest got away. Then came the deal of the misbranded calf, the misbranded cows, and Steve Pelliser provin’ an alibi for Scotty McGowan.

“You see, the murder of Hart looked like a grudge proposition. He didn’t have any enemies in the Valley. Hart and Pelliser had been pardners for years. They fitted in nice. I didn’t know where the two kids came in, but it seems that Neal intrusted them to Hart and Pelliser. I had to have a man who hated both Steve and Ed Hart. Smith was the only stranger, so I kinda looked him over. Nobody would recognize him with that face. He came here to kill both men, but that kickin’ kinda delayed the deal.

“The telegram made me more sure that Smith was Neal. I circulated the report that Jack Erb had told a few things, and watched to see how Scotty took the news. Well, he headed straight for Pelliser—to demand protection in case Erb told too many things. He figured that only Steve and Mary were at the ranch, and it was a good time to talk with Steve. And when Smith, or Neal, followed him real quick, I figured that there would be somethin’ doin’ at the Pelliser ranch.”

“And Smith was jist a locoed nut, who shot Scotty McGowan, ’cause Scotty reached for a gun; and then tried to kill Steve, ’cause Steve’s horse kicked him that night,” said Sleepy.

“That’s right. Fact is stranger than fiction, don’tcha think?”

“It shore is in this case. Man, that was a snappy finish.”

They rode into the town and found the sheriff at his office. He had been looking for them. In a few words Hashknife told him what had happened at the Pelliser ranch, and Evans almost fell out of his chair.

“Smith confessed to the murder of Hart and robbin’ the bank before he died? Can you beat that? And he killed Scotty McGowan? My golly, that’s shore a shock. Say! I better get the coroner and pile out there as fast as I can. Will you tell Scotty’s gang?”

“Shore. You can go right ahead, Dud.”

The sheriff ran for the stable while Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to the War Paint, where everything was in full swing. Buck Haskell was at the bar, talking with Barney East, as Hashknife came up to him.

Buck looked him over suspiciously, but Hashknife’s slow smile was reassuring. He said softly:

“Haskell, get your other two men and meet me outside. I’ve got some news that might interest you all.”

“What do you mean?” asked Haskell tensely, while Barney shifted his right arm a little.

“Just a little news you might like to know ahead of time.”

Buck looked straight at Hashknife, but the level gray eyes never shifted.

“Get ’em, Barney,” said Buck softly.

Sam Hall was playing twenty-one and Nick Lee was watching the whirring roulette; but they followed Barney East, suspiciously, wonderingly, and the six men walked a short distance away from the front door.

“Scarface Smith killed Scotty McGowan at the Pelliser ranch less than an hour ago,” said Hashknife. “The sheriff and coroner are headin’ that way right now. Smith talked a little before he died. I’m tellin’ you this for what it’s worth and before too many folks know about it. It’s none of my business, but if I was you, boys, I’d see that Willow Wells was a long, long ways behind me by this time tomorrow night.”

The four men said nothing for several moments. Finally Buck Haskell spoke softly:

“Is this on the square, Hartley? Did Smith kill Scotty?”

“They’re both dead, Haskell.”

“That’s a square deal on your part,” said Barney East. “I’m not lookin’ for anybody to prove anythin’ to me. Thank you.”

“Same here,” nodded Lee. “I’ve been here too long, anyway.”

Silently they turned, went to the hitch-rack, mounted their horses and rode down the street.

“Undesirable citizens,” said Hashknife. “We couldn’t pin anythin’ on ’em; so I decided to scare ’em out of the country.”

They crossed the street, heading for the sheriff’s office, where their horses were tied; but a single-rig, with one man in it, drew up in front of a general merchandise store and they crossed over to see who it was. The man was rather short, stout, with a Semitic cast of countenance; he wore a derby hat.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “My, that is a dusty trip. I came from Newton. Stine is my name. I represent Nathan and Stine, makers of first class men’s clothing. I come ever so often to here because my headquarters are in Phoenix. I make clothes to your order cheaper—”

“Oh, yes,” said Hashknife pleasantly. “You’ve been here before?”

“Certainly. Last time I sold suits to the sheriff and his deputy.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah. Here’s a tip, Mr. Stine. The deputy is goin’ to get married in a few days and I know danged well—say, he’s been wantin’ to see you ever since he got his last suit.”

“Fine! He spoke about my goods, eh? Can’t I see you boys tomorrow?”

“All depends on where you are,” grinned Hashknife.

They went on to the little hitch-rack, where they climbed on their horses and rode back to the hotel to pay their bill and get their war-bags. As they came from the hotel they met Stine.

“I’ve got some nice fast colors in new weaves,” he said hopefully.

“You’ll need ’em, when you meet that deputy,” said Hashknife. “The faster the better.”

Five minutes later the lights of Willow Wells had faded out as they headed westward, riding knee to knee through the fragrant sage. The moon shone down, silvering the points of the distant ranges.

“I wonder what we’ll find over there,” said Sleepy.

“More hills, I suppose.”

“That’s great.”

And so they passed from the Valley as quietly as they had come. Their work was completed and they were going over the hill, leaving Willow Wells to work out its own salvation, and to wonder what became of them.

As Pink said, two weeks later—

“Dud, you can stand up with me and Mary, but don’t kid yourself—the best man pulled out of here _that_ night.”

The sheriff nodded slowly.

“Queer feller, that Hashknife Hartley. Never told much. I’m still wonderin’ about that telegram and what a man named Neal had to do with it. Why did every one of the Diamond R punchers disappear? Why did a bunch of men take Bill McGill out of jail and not lynch him? When you come right down to it, I don’t know much.”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you ever since I’ve knowed you, Dud. I’m with you, as far as that goes. But where ignorance is bliss, why git all het up. The only thing that worries me now—will Stine git that new suit to me in time? I swore I’d kill him if he ever came back to this town, but I felt so happy over the way things broke, I almost hugged him. Me and Mary are goin’ to run the Diamond R, and you’ll have to hire a new deputy.”

“Yeah, and you told Bill McGill to apply for the job! That maverick!”

“What didja tell him, Dud?”

“What did I tell him?” snorted the sheriff. “I told him he didn’t have brains enough to come in out of the rain. And he said there was very little rain in this part of Arizona, and as far as being ignorant was concerned, did Mr. Lowry have any brains?”

“And then what did you say?” asked Pink, grinning.

“Well, I said a deputy had to be able to smoke cigarettes and cuss a little, and the son of a gun pulled out the makin’s and—who learned that maverick to cuss?”

Pink threw back his head and laughed heartily.

“And then what, Dud?”

“I gave him the job.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, December 15, 1929 and in the subsequent three issues. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]