Chapter IV: Part 4

The following day was a trial for Marion. It was one of those days when every one in the school seemed to be on edge. Two of the larger boys started a fight in the yard, and she sent them both home with notes to their parents. Marion did not feel physically able to whip them, as they were nearly as big as she.

And to cap the climax, at noon came Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall, wives of the trustees. Mrs. Hall was as large as Mrs. Cooper—a great, grim-faced woman, dressed in black, with a small hat, which she had trimmed herself. The hat was a weird and wonderful creation of artificial wheat, red cherries and a single ostrich plume, the whole balanced precariously on the back of her head.

Mrs. Beebee was a thin, scrawny little woman, dressed in rusty black, with a parrotlike voice and a hooked nose. They nodded grimly to Marion and sat down at a vacant seat at the rear of the room.

“Visitin’,” said Mrs. Beebee severely.

“Oh, I am glad you came,” said Marion, trying to be pleasant.

“Mm-m-m-m,” said Mrs. Hall dryly and dubiously.

And there they sat all the afternoon, saying nothing, listening closely to everything. The children seemed to sense the strain, too, and went bad accordingly. Marion had always had trouble with Joe and Mary Beebee, but today they seemed doubly possessed of demons.

Everything went wrong. Even Ella Hall, the school tattletale, who was usually letter perfect, failed utterly, and tried to excuse herself by openly telling the teacher she had given her too much work.

Marion was too miserable to reprimand her, so Ella went back to her seat, her tongue in her cheek, while the black-clad judges in the rear seat looked at each other understandingly. After three hours of this, Marion was ready to scream.

She dismissed school at the regular time, expecting that her visitors would stay long enough at least to express an opinion; but they trailed out with the children. She watched them from the window, going stiffly down the street, bobbing their heads, as they talked it over, while Ella, Joe and Mary stayed close to them, apparently getting an earful of what was being said.

Marion sighed and looked down at little Jimmy Hastings, who was waiting for his father. Jimmy’s face seemed flushed and he rested his chin on his folded arms.

“Don’t you feel well, Jimmy?” she asked.

“Not very, ma’am. My head kinda aches. And I’m mad, too.”

He sat up in his seat, fumbling with his books.

“You must never get mad, Jimmy,” she said.

“’At’s all right. I heard ’em talkin’ at recess. Mary Beebee said she’d bet that it won’t be long before we have a new teacher. She said her ma and Mrs. Hall came up here to see if you was doin’ your work right.”

Marion’s heart sank just a little. She realized that these two women would be able to influence their husbands enough to cause them to make a change. She had no contract with the Pineville school board. And if they did, she would not have enough money even to take her back to Cheyenne.

“And Ella Hall said her mother wasn’t satisfied with what you’d done to Ella,” said Jimmy slowly. “Gee, I don’t want you to go away.”

“Well, I don’t want to go away, Jimmy; but I think it will all turn out right.”

“Mebby. Uncle Tex thinks you’re a dinger. Sometimes he talks with me about you. He says I’m learnin’ awful fast. You ain’t seen him for quite awhile, have you? He ain’t been to town. Somebody—” Jimmy’s eyes grew wide and round—“hit him on the head, don’tcha know it?”

“Somebody hit him on the head, Jimmy?”

“Yes’m. Had a big lump on the side of his head. He never told nobody how he got it. I heard Frank Judd and Tommy Corbett talkin’ about it. It was the day the stage was held up. I asked him what happened, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t know anything about it,” said Marion.

“And he ain’t got that pretty gun no more,” said Jimmy. “Gee, ’at was a pretty gun. And Tex liked it an awful lot,” said Jimmy; and after a few moments of reflection he said, “He likes pretty things.”

“Is your Uncle Tex a good singer, Jimmy?”

“Y’betcha, when he feels like it. He used to sing to me, when he was bringin’ me to school. Most always it was somethin’ about Mother Mac—somethin’.”

“Mother Machree, Jimmy?”

“That’s her. He said it was the Irish croppin’ out. What did he mean by that, Miss Evans?”

“Isn’t he part Irish, Jimmy?”

“I dunno.” Jimmy yawned widely.

“Here comes your father,” said Marion, glancing through the window.

Jimmy met him at the doorway, and they went away together on the horse. Marion closed the schoolhouse and went home. She found Ma Cooper on the porch, dressed in a voluminous wrapper, reading a cook book. Marion sat down on the steps and took off her hat.

“You had company today, didn’t you?” asked Ma.

Marion sighed deeply and placed her hat on the steps.

“Yes,” she said sadly, “Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall.”

“Came to pick you to pieces, eh?”

“Oh, I suppose. And there were plenty of opportunities. The children were possessed today, Ma.”

“They would be, with those two there. I took one look at the two old buzzards and said to myself that you was in for a pleasant afternoon, unless I missed my guess. Some day I’m goin’ to tell ’em both what I think of ’em. Poor old Beebee. He’ll have about as much chance to be a trustee as I will. Same with old Sam Hall. It’ll be Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall against old Henry Goff, and he won’t count. I’m glad Hootie’s off the board. Old Henry ought to git off, too; he ain’t got no kids.”

“If Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall decided to—to make a change in teachers, could they let me go?” asked Marion.

“Well, I wouldn’t think of such a thing, Marion. It’s been a hard job to get any teacher in Pineville. Don’t you worry about it for a minute.”

“I don’t know. There is a lot of talk among the pupils, instigated of course, by Mary and Joe Beebee and Ella Hall. Where there is so much smoke, there must be a little fire. And I can’t afford to lose this position, Ma Cooper.”

“Oh, you won’t lose it. Quit worryin’. Change your clothes and come back here where it’s cool.”

* * * * *

That evening Hashknife saw Tex Blanco for the first time. Tex had ridden in with Frank Judd and Tommy Corbett, who had met Eddie Grimes and Sleepy, while Hashknife had been visiting with the sheriff.

Tex was in a restaurant eating his supper when Hashknife and the sheriff came in. He spoke pleasantly to the sheriff, gave Hashknife a sharp glance and continued eating. Hashknife was rather impressed with Tex’s appearance. There was nothing of the ignorant gunman type about Tex.

They sat down at the rear of the room and ordered their supper. Hashknife had a feeling that the sheriff had been trying to find out more about him, and he wondered just why the sheriff was curious about him. He had asked Hashknife about the places he and Sleepy had worked, and his eyes expressed disbelief, when Hashknife began enumerating more brands than the average cowboy ever dreamed of seeing.

“You must have kept movin’ pretty reg’lar,” said the sheriff dryly.

“Did.”

“What was the idea of movin’ so often, Hartley?”

“The hill that was just ahead.”

“The hill that was—I don’t get what you mean.”

“We wanted to see the other side.”

“Oh, yeah. Kinda tramps, eh?”

“Mebby. I don’t just like that word.”

“Mebby not. How long are you goin’ to stay here?”

“_Quien sabe?_ Mebby pretty soon we’ll see a hill ahead.”

Tex left the restaurant and, in a few minutes, Shorty Gallup, Bud Severn and Alex McLean came in. They had been drinking and were in a boisterous mood.

“Hyah, Sheriff!” yelled Shorty.

When he opened his mouth one noticed two teeth missing in front.

“Hello, Shorty,” said the sheriff.

Shorty looked at Hashknife closely, said something to Alex McLean, and they all sat down at a table near the front of the room.

The sheriff was a little nervous and hurried through his supper. He didn’t like the idea of the TD and the B Arrow gangs meeting in Pineville. After they left the restaurant the sheriff confided this to Hashknife.

“Oscar is in Garnet,” he told Hashknife. “Ought to be back pretty soon. He knows how to handle ’em better than I do. Your pardner is with the B Arrow gang and Eddie Grimes, and if I was you I’d get him away from ’em. Shorty Gallup got whipped by Frank Judd, and Eddie got fired by Shorty, so there might be some fireworks, if they get a few more drinks.”

“Sleepy can take care of himself,” smiled Hashknife.

“I s’pose he can.”

The sheriff went back to his office, and Hashknife sauntered over to Cooper’s store, where he stood on the sidewalk for awhile. He saw Oscar Johnson ride in and go to the office. It was dark. After smoking a cigaret, Hashknife strolled down the street and went up to his room, where he sat down and tried to get interested in an old magazine, but without any success.

Then he decided to go down and talk with Ma Cooper and Marion. He didn’t want to mix with the men in the Stormy River Saloon, because he didn’t want to have any trouble with Shorty, who very likely had not forgotten what had taken place at the TD corral.

But he did not find any one at home at the Cooper house; so he sprawled in a deep porch chair to wait for them to return. He decided that they had gone up to the store and would return in a short time.

He smoked a cigaret and went to sleep, stretched out in the big chair. Suddenly he awoke, staring at the ceiling of the porch, wondering where he was. There were voices close to him—the voices of a man and a woman. He could not see them, because they were on the other side of the porch railing, but he could hear them plainly. It was Marion, talking to Tex Blanco.

Hashknife did not want to listen, but after a few words he decided to stay where he was. Marion was saying—

“You shouldn’t have walked down here with me.”

“I suppose not, Marion. Yes, I’m goin’ to call you Marion. I call you that to myself all the time. I heard a preacher say it is just as bad to think profanity as it is to speak it; so if I think Marion I’ll say Marion.”

“That part is all right,” she said slowly.

“That’s fine. Gee, it’s been a tough week for me—havin’ to give up takin’ Jimmy to school.”

“It was the best thing to do, Mr. Blanco.”

“Won’t you call me Tex? My right name is Bryan. They even mixed my names—Irish and Spanish. Nobody ever calls me Bryan, not even my mother, and she named me. I wish you could meet her. We talk about you a lot.”

“I—I don’t know why you should, Tex.”

“Why? Lord love you, Marion, why shouldn’t we? Don’t go in the house, please. Stay here and talk to me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” faltered Marion. “You know how they feel about you, Tex. If any one knew I was here with you, I’d lose my school. I may lose it anyway. It isn’t I; it’s just the way things are, don’t you see?”

“What does the school amount to, if you say it isn’t you? Marion, you’ve got to listen to me. I’ve got to tell you right now. The rest of the world can go hang. I—”

“Don’t, Tex! Oh, can’t you see it is no use?”

“No, I can’t,” said Tex slowly. “I can’t see, unless you believe what folks have told you, Marion. They have been my judges for a long time. They must be without sin, because they throw rocks all the time.

“I’m no saint. Oh, I know what they say about me. They have probably told you I killed Buck Dennig, because he accused me of cheating; and they can’t arrest me, because there’s no evidence. They’ve put a lot of their crimes on me. And it never made much difference, until you came along.

“I ought to understand how you feel, Marion. But I guess I’m kinda dumb. I couldn’t expect you to marry a man of my reputation, unless you knew it wasn’t true. I can’t prove my innocence. They can’t prove me guilty, and I can’t prove my innocence.”

“Tex,” said Marion softly, “would you swear to me that you are innocent of any crime?”

“Of any crime they accuse me—yes, Marion.”

“Even of holding up that stage the other day?”

Marion’s voice was pitched so low that Hashknife had to strain his ears to hear her.

Tex laughed softly.

“Bless your heart, of course, I swear it!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Tex, so sorry I don’t know what to say.”

“Sorry? Because I denied doin’ it, Marion?”

“Because that day—oh, don’t you understand? Ma Cooper and I saw that holdup. We were on the mesa. And after it was all over, I—I found your revolver, the one with the pearl handle.”

“You found it?” Tex’s voice was hoarse.

“It’s in my trunk, Tex. Ma Cooper knows. We’ll never tell anybody, Tex. Goodby.”

* * * * *

She came slowly up the steps and went into the house, passing within six feet of Hashknife, who hunched lower in the big chair, thankful he was overlooked. He heard Tex walking slowly away, his spurs rasping on the sidewalk. Hashknife got to his feet and stepped off the porch. He decided not to wait for Mrs. Cooper to come back, but he met her just outside the gate.

“This is Hartley, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “Dropped in to see you, didn’t find anybody at home and went to sleep on the porch.”

Mrs. Cooper laughed shortly.

“Wasn’t Miss Evans at home?”

“She came a few minutes ago.”

“I see. Hootie said for me to tell you to run in and see him, if I seen you.”

“All right. Good night, Mrs. Cooper.”

Hashknife walked up to the store, where he found Hootie waiting on some customers. As soon as Hootie was at liberty, he motioned for Hashknife to meet him at the rear of the store.

“I just wanted to let you know that the sheriff sent a telegram yesterday to my brother in Mizpah, Arizona, askin’ him what he knew about you, Hartley.”

“Yea-a-ah?” drawled Hashknife, not knowing what else to say.

“And Oscar, his deputy, brought back a wire from Jim this evenin’. It said—

“Never knew anybody by the name of Hashknife Hartley in my
life.”

“Well,” said Hashknife, after a short pause, “that’s kinda queer, don’tcha think, Mr. Cooper?”

“I thought it was. That’s why I told you.”

He moved away to wait on another customer, and Hashknife sauntered outside.

“Next time I start lyin’, I’ll pick a town that ain’t on no map,” he told himself, grinning in spite of the fact that he had been caught in the lie. “But just why would the sheriff go to all that trouble and expense. Mebby I better go down and see him.”

Hashknife went to the office, where he found Oscar Johnson sprawled in a chair. The tall, sad-faced deputy looked at Hashknife with a funereal expression, a cigaret hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth.

“Got a letter for you, Hartley,” he said, waving one limp hand toward the sheriff’s desk. “’S over there.”

Hashknife picked up the letter and glanced at the postmark. It had been posted in Garnet and sent to him in care of the sheriff’s office. He tore one end off of the envelope and drew out the enclosure. It read:

We will give you eight hours to leave this valley.

—THE BUNCH.

It was identical with the letter Sears, the detective, had received. Hashknife glanced sharply at Oscar, who was looking at him quizzically. The sheriff came in, stopped short and looked at Hashknife, who smiled and held out the warning for his inspection.

The sheriff scowled at the message for a moment and went to his desk, where he secured the note that had been sent to Sears and compared the writing. It was identical.

“Just alike, eh?” asked Hashknife.

“Exactly.”

“But what does it mean? Who is The Bunch?”

“That’s what Sears wondered.”

“Why do they want me out of the valley?”

The sheriff walked over and closed the door, as if he did not want anybody else to hear what he was going to say. He came back to his desk and faced Hashknife.

“I dunno why they want you out, Hartley,” he said. “You two fellers have had me kinda guessin’, don’tcha know it? I’m goin’ to put my cards on the table. You told folks that you came over the divide from Piney Lake, didn’t you?

“Well, you didn’t, Hartley. Alex McLean saw you leave Wallgate, and you couldn’t have made the trip to Piney Lake and back here in that length of time. You told Hootie Cooper that you knowed Jim Cooper in Mizpah, Arizona. Just to find out a few things, I wired Jim Cooper. And—” he reached in his pocket and drew out a telegram—“this is his reply.”

“I’ve heard it,” said Hashknife calmly. “Hootie told me about it.”

“Jim Cooper never met you in his life.”

“Not to my knowledge, Sheriff.”

“Then why didja—”

“Lie?” Hashknife smiled. “Oh I dunno. Force of habit, I suppose. Any other charges?”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon so.”

“All right, I’m guilty on both counts. What’s the penalty for lyin’ in this county?”

The sheriff put the telegram in his pocket. For all his trouble he was no better off than before.

“I reckon there ain’t no penalty,” he said slowly. “But it kinda makes a feller lose faith in you.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah,” drawled Hashknife. “As a matter of fact, you didn’t have no faith in me to start with, Sheriff. If you had, you’d have swallered my lies instead of provin’ me a liar. Now that you’ve proved it, what are you goin’ to do about it?”

The sheriff rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

“Nothin’, I guess.”

He sat down in his desk chair and filled an old pipe. Oscar grinned softly and winked at Hashknife.

“You don’t need to wink at anybody,” said the sheriff. “It was your idea—this investigation, Oscar.”

“Well, I sink along with you, don’t I? I’m not howlin’ about it. As a detective, I’m a good night herder. I reckon Hartley ain’t the first puncher that ever told a lie, and I ain’t lost no faith in him. He didn’t hedge none, did he? Admitted that we had the goods on him, Pat. He could have sworn that he had a different name, when he knowed Jim Cooper, and he could have sworn that Alex McLean was a liar, which he is most of the time.”

“I thought of both,” said Hashknife, “but what’s the use? I never knew Jim Cooper. The sign on his store came blowing down one afternoon and almost crowned me. And we did not come from Piney Lake.”

“Why didja say you came from Piney Lake?” asked the sheriff.

“Thought it might be a good place to be from.”

“I reckon that’s a good answer, Hartley, if that’s your name.”

“You’d have a hell of a time provin’ it isn’t.”

* * * * *

Hashknife walked over to the door, opened it and stood there, looking up the street. Over at the Stormy River Saloon hitchrack a cowboy was singing at the top of his voice. Came the rasp of shod hoofs against the hard street, a shrill yell, a fusillade of revolver shots, sparking upward.

The sheriff came quickly to the doorway.

“Happy punchers goin’ home,” laughed Hashknife.

“Damn fools!” snorted the sheriff. “Liable to hurt somebody, shootin’ wild thataway.”

Someone was coming down the sidewalk toward the office. It was Sleepy, grinning widely.

“Well, they all got away without hurtin’ anybody,” he said. “Them last two was Shorty Gallup and Matt Sturgis, boiled drunk.”

Sleepy leaned against the wall and rolled a cigaret.

“Thought for awhile there was goin’ to be trouble. The TD gang wanted to act bad. Gallup sent word to Judd, of the B Arrow, that he was goin’ to get him. Severn and McLean tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. McLean and Severn went home. Judd was all set to swap lead with Shorty, but Grimes and Corbett talked him out of the notion. I helped a little, I suppose. Anyway, the B Arrow gang pulled out, and when Shorty heard about it he sang a song, piled on his bronc and shot a few holes in the sky.”

“I’ll bet he was glad Judd pulled out,” said Oscar. “Pat wanted me to go over and ride herd on ’em, but I told him I wouldn’t do it. Let ’em fight it out. If they’ve got it in their system, let ’em fight.”

“You was scared to go over,” growled Pat.

“You didn’t go, didja?” queried Oscar. “When I refused, why didn’t you do it. Don’t talk to me about bein’ scared.”

“They didn’t start nothin’ with you, did they, Sleepy?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’ but talk. This McLean person came up to me in the Stormy River, and he’s pretty well loaded, and he stuck his face into mine, and he says, ‘I know somethin’ about you.’ I kicked his feet out from under him, and he sets down on the bar rail like a ton of bricks. I reckon it was quite a shock, because when he got to his feet again, he’s kinda puckered up, and I asks him what he knows. But he didn’t say. He went out of there kinda bent in the shape of a chair; but I guess he got straightened out to ride a horse.”

Oscar laughed immoderately, but the sheriff was serious. He knew what McLean meant.

“We’ve been exposed,” smiled Hashknife. “They all know we didn’t come from Piney Lake, and they know I never met Jim Cooper.”

Sleepy’s mouth sagged for a moment, as he hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his pants, staring at the sheriff and the deputy.

“Well,” he said softly, “what’s the next thing to do, Hashknife?”

“Go to bed, I suppose,” grinned Hashknife. “Good night, officers.”

They went up the street together and entered the hotel room, where Hashknife told Sleepy all about their exposure as liars of the first vintage and also showed him the warning note. Sleepy whistled through his teeth and essayed a clumsy clog in the middle of the floor.

“Must please you, don’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Gives me a talkin’ point, any old time you accuse me of stretchin’ things,” laughed Sleepy.

“What do you think of the note?”

“Scares me to death.”

“It’s serious, Sleepy.”

“So am I. In the mornin’ I’m goin’ down and make my peace with Ma Cooper and Miss Evans. If I have to, I’ll tell ’em I met you after you was in Mizpah. You see, I never pretended to know Jim Cooper.”

Sleepy laughed gleefully.

“And I saw Tex Blanco tonight. They can say what they want to about him, he can take care of himself. I was almost tempted to shoot him and steal his shirt. Man, what a garment! I wonder if Miss Evans is goin’ to marry him.”

“I don’t think so, Sleepy.”

“You don’t think so? Is that an official count of all the votes, Hashknife?”

Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“There may be a few counties to hear from yet, Sleepy. We better hit the hay, because we’ve only got eight hours left.”

“When do we run, Hashknife?”

Hashknife considered his two boots thoughtfully.

“Just as soon as we find somebody to run after.”

* * * * *

Mrs. Blanco, Tex’s mother, was a little old Irish woman, not over sixty years of age, but looking much older. Her hair was as white as snow, her face deeply lined and tanned. Her name had been Mary Bryan before she married Enrique Blanco, down on the Rio Grande, and in her voice was still the brogue of old Wexford.

This early morning she stood in the kitchen door at the B Arrow, an anxious expression in her blue eyes. Leaning against the wall beside her was Andy Hastings, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets, hair uncombed, a stubble of whiskers on his lean jaw.

“You think he’s sick bad?” asked Andy.

“Aye, he’s bad, Andy. High fever. Well, ye saw the lad. Tex is in there with him now. I think ye better saddle and get the doctor, Andy.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

Andy went striding down to the stable, and in a few moments Tex came out and stood beside his mother.

“Sleepin’,” he said softly. “Is Andy goin’ for the doctor, mother?”

“Aye.”

“He’s a sick boy,” said Tex slowly. “He didn’t know me.”

“It’s the fever. Children get it bad. And they get over it quick. They can stand more than a grown-up.”

“He was talkin’ about the school, mother, askin’ for Miss Evans, wantin’ to fight the Beebee boy. I thought he looked kinda bad when Andy brought him home last night.”

“Aye, it was growin’ on him then, Tex. But mebby it is only an upset stummick after all. Children get those things.”

Andy Hastings led his horse from the stable, mounted and rode out through the big gate, forgetting to wear a hat.

“He thinks a world of the lad,” said Mrs. Blanco.

“We all do, mother. I’d rather lose my right hand than—”

Tex turned and went back in the house. The old lady nodded her head slowly.

Kit Carson, Tommy Corbett and Frank Judd were coming up from the bunkhouse, ready for breakfast, and she told them about little Jimmy’s illness.

“Gee, that’s tough,” said Judd. “Andy went after a doctor, didn’t he?”

“Why didn’t he send one of us?” asked Tommy. “He should have stayed with Jimmy. Where’s Tex?”

“He’s in there with Jimmy. Ye’ll have to wait awhile for breakfast, boys; I haven’t started it yet.”

“That’s all right, Mother Blanco,” said Judd quickly. “You jist take your time. There’s nothin’ we’ve got to do early this mornin’, anyway. Can we do anythin’ for Jimmy?”

“Not a thing, Frank. I’ll get breakfast now.”

Andy Hastings did not spare his horse, and it was still early morning when he rode up to the doctor’s house in Pineville. Old Doctor Brent answered his summons and promised to start for the ranch, as soon as he could dress and get his horse and buggy.

Andy rode back up the street and went to Cooper’s home, where he found them at breakfast.

“I jist wanted to see Miss Evans,” said Andy to Ma Cooper. Marion came to the door and Andy told her about Jimmy.

“I jist wanted you to know why he didn’t show up at the school,” he told her.

“Is he very sick?” asked Marion anxiously.

“Yes’m, I reckon he’s pretty bad. Mother Blanco and Tex was up with him ’most all night. They didn’t tell me until this mornin’, so I came right away for the doctor. He’s kinda out of his head, you see.”

Andy squinted painfully.

“He didn’t know me; didn’t know Tex either. Jist talked about the school and you, ma’am. And he wanted to fight the Beebee boy.” Andy turned his head away. “He’s quite a fighter, ma’am, Jimmy is. He thinks you’re pretty fine. He talked about you goin’ away.”

Andy turned and looked at Marion.

“You ain’t goin’ away, are you?”

“I hope not, Mr. Hastings.”

“I hope not m’self. Jimmy’s learnin’ so fast. Well, I’ve got to git back to the ranch.”

“Is there anythin’ we can do, Andy?” asked Ma Cooper.

“Not a thing, thank you, Mrs. Cooper.”

“Will he be nursed all right out there?” asked Marion.

“Oh, shore. Mother Blanco is fine thataway. I’ll let you know how he comes along.”

Andy rode back to the main street, where he met the doctor, and they went to the ranch together.

Marion had been greatly worried ever since Mrs. Cooper had told her of meeting Hashknife at the gate and that Hashknife said he had been asleep on the porch. Marion remembered that she and Tex had stood near the porch and she was afraid that Hashknife had heard what she told Tex about finding that gun. Marion did not tell Ma Cooper that she had told Tex.

* * * * *

Hashknife cautioned Sleepy that morning. He did not know just how much of that note was pure bluff and, even if it were part bluff, they were taking a big chance in staying around Pineville.

They met the sheriff after breakfast, and he seemed a little surprised to meet them.

“Your eight hours are up,” he told Hashknife.

“We realize that,” smiled Hashknife. “But it’s daylight, and that bunch don’t work in daylight.”

“You’re just guessin’ ain’tcha?”

Hashknife studied the sheriff seriously.

“You ain’t tryin’ to run us out, are you, Sheriff?”

“No, I’m not. I don’t _sabe_ you, though.”

“You don’t need to. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”

“Mm-m-m. Well, go ahead and get killed, if you feel thataway.”

“No, that ain’t the idea, Sheriff. Don’t go off half cocked. You’ve been tryin’ to put the deadwood on us ever since we came here. You proved me a liar, didn’t you? Oh, that’s all right. Let’s drop it and be friends.”

Pat Lynch looked quizzically at Hashknife.

“I reckon I might as well, Hartley. Me and Oscar argued a lot about you two fellers, and he stuck up for you. I swear I don’t know a thing about you, except that you lied, and admitted it like a gentleman.”

“Well, that’s settled,” grinned Hashknife, taking the note from his pocket. “Who wrote that, Sheriff?”

“I don’t know,” declared the sheriff. “It’s the same writin’ as was on the other note.”

“Can you get hold of a sample of Tex Blanco’s writin’?”

The sheriff blinked quickly and shifted his eyes toward the bank building across the street.

“Why do you want a sample of his writin’, Hartley?”

“You wouldn’t have to be very bright to answer that yourself, Sheriff.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff shifted uneasily for a moment; then:

“Hartley, I don’t want this to go any farther, because Heffner says it don’t prove nothin’; but we compared the other note with Blanco’s signature at the bank, and the B in Bunch is the same as the B in Blanco.”

“Why does Heffner say it doesn’t prove anythin’?”

“Says it would take an expert to prove it. And even at that a cow jury prob’ly wouldn’t believe it. But the B is the same, Hartley. It’s got the curlicue at the bottom and one at the top. I’m no expert, but I could see that. But don’t say anythin’, Hartley.”

“I’m not sayin’ anythin’, Sheriff; but I’d like to see that signature.”

“I’ll get it for you, as soon as the bank opens.”

The sheriff glanced at his watch.

“Tex Blanco quarreled with Buck Dennig the night Dennig was killed, didn’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“Dennig accused him of cheatin’ at poker,” said the sheriff, “but that ain’t evidence. Somebody stole the ten thousand off Buck that night, but we’ve no trace of that. Buck cashed a check for it that afternoon. Nobody knows what he was goin’ to do with the money. Might as well go over to the bank and get that signature; it’s ten o’clock.”

They went over and started into the bank, but found the door locked. The sheriff looked at his watch again.

“My watch must be fast,” he said, winding it slowly.

Hashknife looked at his watch; it showed ten minutes after ten.

“Shearer’s late,” decided the sheriff, and they sat down on the edge of the high sidewalk to wait.

They saw Tex Blanco ride in and go to the little drug store down the street. He came out in a few moments, mounted and rode swiftly out of town. Hootie Cooper came along, tried the bank door, and came out to the edge of the sidewalk.

“Shearer must have overslept,” he said.

But Guy Shearer, the cashier, did not come. Several other people tried to get into the bank. It was after ten-thirty, when old John Rice, president of the bank, came along. He and Shearer were the only employees of the bank, and Rice was not in the habit of coming very early. Rice was a small, gray-haired man, slightly crippled, an old-timer in the Stormy River country. He seemed greatly surprised to find the bank still closed.

“Perhaps Guy is sick,” he said, as he unlocked the front door. “He was all right yesterday. Come right in, gentlemen.”

They followed him in. He carefully blocked the door open, before doing anything else. The Pineville Bank was a small institution, the room being about twenty by thirty feet in size, less than a third of it used for office space.

Rice led the way to the low railing that separated the office desks from the rest of the building, swung open the gate and stepped inside. At the rear of this was the front of the vault, which was little more than a large safe, set into the wall. Rice placed his hat on a desk and started to turn back to the men, when he stopped and leaned forward, both hands on the desk.

“My God!” he exclaimed loudly. “What has been done here?”

Hashknife had halted near the gate, and now he flung it open and stepped inside, with the sheriff close behind him.

Stretched out on the floor, half under the desk, was Guy Shearer, the cashier, his head in a pool of blood. On the floor near him was a length of lariat rope. Hashknife took one look at Shearer and decided he was dead. Quickly the sheriff and Rice dropped on their knees beside him, while Hootie and Sleepy leaned across the railing and watched them turn the man over on his back.

Hashknife picked up the rope, looked it over quickly. It was an ordinary spot cord rope, which had been used quite a lot. He quickly inspected both ends of the rope. One end had been wrapped tightly with a fine copper wire, while the other end, frayed slightly, showed a fresh cut.

Hashknife moved around the room, glancing sharply from one corner to another, holding the rope in one hand. The men were too interested in the dead cashier to pay any attention to Hashknife. Suddenly he stooped and picked up an object from near the leg of a desk, concealing it in his hand for a few moments while he played idly with the rope, and then slipped it into his pocket.

“There’s no use goin’ for the doctor,” Hootie was saying. “He’s gone out to the B Arrow to see Hastings’ kid.”

John Rice’s face was very white and his lips trembled as he leaned against the railing and looked at the dead cashier.

“You better set down, John,” advised the sheriff. “There ain’t no use of you standin’ up. Nothin’ you can do. He’s as dead as a salt herrin’.”

“But why—who killed him, Pat? The door was locked.”

The old banker looked around the room, and his gaze came back to the vault door.

“Those windows won’t open,” he said slowly. “Will some of you lock the front door? We can’t have folks coming in here now.”

Sleepy walked over and closed the door.

* * * * *

“If I were in your place,” said Hashknife, “I’d open the vault and have a look inside.”

“But the vault is locked,” said Rice. “Nobody could—”

“Folks don’t usually break into a bank just to kill the cashier, you know.”

“Mebby you better, John,” said the sheriff.

The old man went over to the vault and slowly worked the combination. None of the men went near him. He swung the door open and, after a moment of inspection, stepped back.

“It—it has been cleaned out,” he said painfully.

Hashknife and the sheriff walked over beside him. The inside door was partly open. The sheriff swung it the rest of the way, disclosing an empty interior. That door opened with a key, and there was no key in the lock.

“Better close it up,” said Hashknife. “No use tellin’ everybody.”

Rice closed the outer door and turned the combination.

“This is terrible,” said Rice hoarsely. “What can we do?”

The sheriff shook his head helplessly, staring at the body of the cashier. Sleepy perched on the rail, smoking a cigaret, and kept an eye on Hashknife, who was idly swinging the rope in his hand. The sheriff took the rope and looked at it.

“This was on the floor, wasn’t it, Hartley?”

“Yeah,” said Hashknife. He turned to Rice. “Was the cashier in the habit of workin’ in here at night?”

“Not very often. There wasn’t enough work for that.”

“Uh-huh. He had a key to the inside door of that vault?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Let’s see if he’s still got it. Shall I search him, or will you, Sheriff?”

“You do it,” said the sheriff.

In a trouser pocket Hashknife found the key ring, and Rice identified the key.

“Did anybody, except you two, know the combination?”

“Just the two of us,” said Rice wearily.

Hashknife and the sheriff walked around the place. There was no evidence that any one had been at work. The desks were orderly. Hashknife went back and examined the body. The blow had been struck from behind.

“What do you think, Hartley?” asked the sheriff.

“Hard to tell. Looks as though somebody had met this man, forced him here at the point of a gun, robbed the vault and then hit him over the head. They went through the front door, which is on a spring lock. Mebby they intended to just tie him up here, but somethin’ happened and they killed him, and forgot their rope.”

“That’s my theory, too!” exclaimed the sheriff. “That’s what they done. Prob’ly met Shearer on the street. Mebby he recognized them, and they had to kill him.”

“That sounds reasonable,” agreed Hashknife. He turned to Rice. “Did they get much from the vault?”

“At least twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Hashknife whistled softly.

“I didn’t know you kept that much cash in a bank of this size.”

“Sometimes more than that. We won’t know until a check is made of it.”

“I hate to move that body until the coroner gets here,” said the sheriff. “He ought to be back in a little while. I think I’ll go down to Allen’s place and see what they know about Shearer. Allen’s place is where Shearer lived,” he explained to Hashknife. “Want to walk down?”

“Yeah, I’ll go with you.”

“I’d like to have one of you stay here with me,” said Rice quickly.

“I’ll stay,” said Sleepy. “I’m good company.”

They walked down to the house and inquired of Mrs. Allen, but did not tell her that Shearer was dead until she said that Shearer did not show up for breakfast. She did not know whether he had left early or late the evening before, as he had a room on the lower floor, with an outside entrance.

She was greatly shocked to know that he was dead, and let them in to examine his room. The bed had not been disturbed. On the dresser was an enlargement from a snapshot picture, showing the front of the bank, Shearer, Buck Dennig, Cleve Tolman and John Rice.

“That picture was taken about the time Shearer went to work for the bank,” said the sheriff. “He was with the Garnet Mercantile Company for quite awhile before he came here. That’s Buck Dennig next to Shearer.”

“Buck was a good lookin’ feller,” said Hashknife.

“And a nice feller, too. Well, I guess we’ll have to go back and wait for Doc Brent to come back from the B Arrow. This will shore upset this town.”

They went back up the street. Quite a crowd had collected in front of the bank and, as they drew near to the bank, old Doctor Brent drove in from the east side of the town. Someone told him about the trouble at the bank, and he stopped at the little hitchrack. The sheriff went in with him, but Hashknife stayed outside listening to the different opinions. Hootie was telling them all about the discovery of the murder.

Cleve Tolman rode in. He was a director in the bank and one of the heaviest depositors. Hashknife watched him enter. In a few minutes some of the men secured a narrow cot, which they used as a stretcher to carry the body down to the doctor’s office. The bank closed its door for the day.

* * * * *

The crowd dispersed quickly, after the body had been taken away. Sleepy joined Hashknife and they sat on the edge of the sidewalk together.

“I suppose that’s the work of The Bunch,” said Sleepy.

“Looks thataway,” nodded Hashknife.

Sleepy looked around and as he rolled a cigaret, edged a little closer to Hashknife and said—

“What did you find in there, Hashknife?”

“You saw me find it?”

“Yeah. Nobody else did, though.”

Hashknife reached in his pocket and drew out a hondo, the loop on the end of a lariat, through which the rope runs. It was of metal, covered with leather, and in the leather had been burned the initial B and a crudely drawn arrow, the mark of the B Arrow ranch.

Sleepy examined it closely and gave it back to Hashknife.

“Cut it off the rope and then lost it, eh?”

Hashknife nodded slowly as he put the hondo in his pocket.

“Looks thataway. They meant to tie Shearer, and didn’t want that marked hondo to be found. Probably workin’ in the dark and lost it. That hondo might hang somebody, Sleepy.”

“Shore! Ain’t you goin’ to give it to the sheriff?”

“Not yet. There’s several men at the B Arrow, and they didn’t all kill Shearer.”

“They must be The Bunch,” said Sleepy quietly. “We’ll have to keep an eye on ’em, cowboy. I hear they’ve been rustlin’ TD beef for a long time. But I like Judd and Corbett. Carson don’t say much. They tell me Judd is a fighter. He whipped Shorty Gallup.”

“So did Grimes,” smiled Hashknife. “He had Shorty whipped that day we met him. It was Sturgis who knocked Grimes down, you remember—hit him from behind.”

“Yeah, that’s right. This killin’ will make folks sore. This Shearer was well liked.”

Oscar Johnson came along and sat down with them.

“Lotsa crime around here,” he said. “I liked Shearer. Who do you suppose killed him, Hartley?”

“The same folks who sent us that note, Johnson.”

“I s’pose. Pat was surprised that you fellers didn’t pull out. Your eight hours are up long ago.”

“I dunno,” mused Hashknife. “Eight hours from when? They should have set a time, Oscar. How would they know when I got that note?”

“That’s right. But you wouldn’t go, anyway. I told Pat you had more nerve than Sears did. He shore high tailed quick. I never seen a cow detective yet that had any nerve. We’ve got a job on our hands, tryin’ to clear all this up. Don’t think we ever will. Takes brains, don’tcha know it. Me and Pat ain’t got enough. He thinks he’s smart, but I know him.”

“Don’t you even suspect anybody?” asked Sleepy.

“Shore,” nodded Oscar solemnly, “but what’s the use? You can’t prove it. Look at the money they’ve got! Ten thousand from Buck Dennig, three thousand from that stage and now they get about twenty-five thousand more. Thirty-eight thousand dollars!”

“And two dead men,” said Hashknife.

“Yeah, two dead men. That kind of money ought to burn a man, Hartley.”

“It will.”

“Mebby. If we don’t never catch ’em, it won’t.”

“Who was sick at the B Arrow this mornin’?”

“Little Jimmy Hastings. Tex came in after medicine. Told me the doctor was scared the kid had typhoid. Tex thinks a lot of that kid. He’s a queer feller, this Tex Blanco. You wasn’t here the day the stage was held up, was you? No, that was before you came. Me and Pat went out to where the stage was robbed. Mrs. Cooper and Miss Evans had been to Garnet, and they must have been pretty close behind the stage.

“We found where the robbery had been pulled off, and we saw where Cooper’s buckboard had pulled out of the road at the same spot. And we found a woman’s tracks, where she left the buckboard and walked about four or five steps and then came back.

“But them women wouldn’t admit that they seen the holdup, nor that they walked around at the spot. Pat’s got an idea that they’re keepin’ somethin’ quiet. Anyway, we came back past the B Arrow and talked with Andy Hastings. He said that Tex went to Garnet to the dance the night before.

“And while we was talkin’ to Andy, Tex rode in. He shore looked tough. There was blood on his muffler and on his shirt, and he wore his hat tilted to one side, as though to hide somethin’. And another thing—he didn’t have no gun in his holster. Jist nodded howdy to us and rode on. Acted as though he didn’t want to talk with us. It shore looked queer to me.”

“Why didn’t you ask him where he’d been?” asked Hashknife.

“Yea-a-ah! In the first place, it wasn’t none of our business.”

“Wasn’t Buck Dennig killed in the same way as Shearer?”

“Shore was. I never thought of that.”

“And they tell me that Windy March, the stage driver, never saw the men who held him up.”

“That’s right, Hartley. Oh, they’re clever all right. Poor Windy ain’t over it yet. He sat there and looked the way they wanted him to look. I don’t blame him m’self.”

“Neither do I,” said Hashknife seriously. “Did any of you check up on Tex, to see if he was at Garnet that night?”

“I don’t guess anybody did, Hartley.”

“And you don’t know what Buck Dennig was goin’ to do with that ten thousand?”

“Nope, never knew he had it until after he was killed.”

“I guess we better go and eat, before you admit that you ain’t done a thing.”

“Hell, I can admit that on an empty stummick—but I’ll eat with you.”

* * * * *

“Ro-o-ho-oll on, silv’ry moo-hoon—
Light the trav’ler on his way-ha-a-ay—
O, la-lay-hee-e-e! O, la-lay-he-hoo-o-o-o!”

As a yodler, Luke Jones, cook for the TD outfit, was terrible. In fact it was a series of broken notes, wails and hoots, sent forth at the top of his voice, as he leaned against the side of the kitchen door. In his left hand he held a tin cup which contained some violet tinted liquid, while his right hand, concealed beneath his dirty apron, gripped a big single action Colt revolver.

Luke was very drunk, but very much awake. His bleared eyes caught sight of what appeared to be the brim of a sombrero, extending just out from the corner of the bunkhouse. He jerked his hand from beneath the apron and fired from his hip. The bullet smashed a window in the bunkhouse, three feet from the corner, and old Luke grinned, exposing a few crooked teeth. He drank from the cup, twisted his face in a scowl and yelled—

“C’mon out and git shot, you chuckwalla!”

But no one came out. Luke had been there for fifteen minutes, defying the whole TD outfit. Shorty Gallup had kicked on the breakfast, as well he might, because Luke was drunk when he cooked it—drunk on prune whisky which he had made himself. Luke was a periodical drunkard, but he had always gone to town to celebrate.

Luke had taken Shorty’s kicks as personal insults. He wanted to show them who was boss of that kitchen, and he was doing it. He had Shorty, Matt Sturgis, Alex McLean and Bud Hough hiding out behind the bunkhouse. Tolman and Dobe Severn had left for town before Luke’s outburst.

“I’m goin’ to step out and kill that old fool,” declared Shorty angrily. “He deserves it, I tell you. Aw, he couldn’t hit me, even if he had a shotgun. My stars, there goes another window!”

Shorty drew his gun and stepped out quickly from the side of the bunkhouse. Came a sharp _whap!_ Something went _pwee-e-e_, down toward the corral, and Shorty fell back against the wall, swearing softly.

“Look at that!” he wailed, indicating the right leg of his batwing chaps, where a bullet had torn away the leather and forcibly removed one of Shorty’s silver rosettes. It was the rosette they heard _pweeing_ its way down past the corral.

“Couldn’t hit you without a shotgun,” jeered Bud Hough.

“Accident—mebby,” said Matt Sturgis.

“Mebby,” said Shorty dryly. “Peek around there and see what he’s doin’, Alex.”

“When I’m too old to be of any use,” grinned Alex. “You do your own peekin’.”

They did not know that Luke had gone in the kitchen and filled his tin cup again, and was now sitting on the steps. The homemade liquor had made his legs unstable. He had two more shells in his gun, so he fired both of them at the door of the bunkhouse. One struck the roof of the stable and the other hit the ground halfway between Luke and the bunkhouse and ricocheted its way off across the hills.

But the boys behind the bunkhouse stayed where they were for about fifteen minutes more, before Shorty mustered up nerve enough to peek around the corner again. Only the soles of Luke’s boots were visible, sticking through the kitchen doorway.

They surrounded the recumbent form of the old cook, took the gun from his unresisting hand and told him what they thought of him. But it was all right with old Luke Jones; he couldn’t hear them.

“Hitch up the buckboard, Bud,” ordered Shorty. “We’re goin’ to ship him away from here right now. When he wakes up, he won’t be the TD cook any longer.”

So they took old Luke to Pineville, along with all his possessions, and left him at the livery stable to sleep off his prune juice. McLean and Bud Hough, who had brought him to town, met Tolman and told him what Luke had done.

Tolman didn’t like the idea of losing a cook, but he said nothing. Tolman was upset over the killing of Shearer and the robbery of the bank. Being a director and a heavy depositor, he was naturally much concerned.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy were with Oscar Johnson, when the stage came in that afternoon, and they noticed that Windy had a passenger—a middle-aged, thin-faced man, who wore glasses and was dressed in a rusty black suit.

The passenger met Sam Hall and Old Man Beebee, and the three of them walked out to the schoolhouse. It was almost four o’clock when they came, so they waited until Marion dismissed school.

When the last pupil had left the room they walked in. Marion looked at them wonderingly, but she did not have to wait long for an explanation.

“Miss Evans, this here is Mr. Long,” said Sam Hall, in his nasal drawl. “Mr. Long teached the school about a month last term when our reg’lar teacher quit. Now, we’ve been thinkin’ it over and we come to the conclusion that this here ain’t no job for a lady, so we’ve done hired Mr. Long to take over the school.”

Marion gasped.

“You mean, to take my position?”

“Yes’m,” said Beebee firmly. “That’s the idea, ma’am. He will begin teachin’ t’morrow mornin’.”

“But such a thing is unheard of,” protested Marion. “You told me I was to have the school for this term.”

“Yeah, we did think so. But you—well, you ain’t been so satisfactory, ma’am. A lot of the wimmin ain’t satisfied, you see.”

“So the women run the school, instead of the trustees.”

“We don’t want no hard feelin’s,” said Sam Hall quickly.

In a dazed way Marion gathered up her belongings and left the schoolhouse, while Beebee, Hall and the new teacher waited for her to go. She did not tell them goodby.

“Pers’nally,” said Sam Hall, after Marion had gone, “I think she’s so pretty that the wimmin got jealous.”

“A paragon of pulchritude,” said Long seriously.

“I been tryin’ to think of that,” said Beebee.

“You have, like hell!” snorted Sam Hall. “The only big word you know is asafœdita; and you only know that because you wear it in a bag, hanging around your neck to keep away disease.”