Chapter III (2)

Sody grinned encouragingly. He felt that something worth while had happened over there and wondered how they had found out that Black Wells did not like them. Mrs. Daley came from up-stairs and smiled a welcome to them. She sat down at the table and waited for the conversation to resume.

“Do any of you folks know a puncher over there named Jud? He’s kinda pointed-faced, with squirrel-teeth, and looks like he never lived in a country where there was soap.”

“That’s Jud Mahley,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I betcha that’s who yuh mean. His eyes are awful close together--kinda makes him look like he’s cross-eyed.”

“That’s him,” grinned Hashknife. “And there’s the proprietor of the Welcome saloon. He’s----”

“That’s ‘Bumpy’ Dickenson,” laughed Sody. “Got a bald head, with bumps all over it, ain’t he?”

“That’s the whip-poor-will,” admitted Sleepy. “Nice sort of a gent.”

“With a reverse-English!” exploded Uncle Jimmy. “There ain’t a bigger crook in the world than Dickenson.”

“Unless it’s Jud Mahley,” amended Sody. “He ain’t only crooked, but he’s lucky.”

“Sody shot at him once,” grinned Uncle Jimmy, “and Sody has been sore ever since.”

“Danged right!” snorted Sody. “I’d bet forty dollars agin’ a cigaret paper that it was Jud Mahley. He was usin’ a runnin’-iron on a calf, back toward Crooked Cañon. I had a .45-70 and a lot of them ---- D. C. ca’tridges that got into this country, because they was cheap.

“Anyway, I got a good runnin’ shot at that jasper, and I’d ’a’ handed him a harp; but the head blowed off the shell, knocked ---- out of my Winchester, and I couldn’t see to spit for twenty minutes.”

Hashknife laughed at Sody’s disgusted expression. He knew just how Sody had felt at the time.

“So Jud used to be over here, eh?” he asked.

“Yeah, he sure did,” grunted Sody. “He worked around for the different outfits. Thinks he’s a gun-man. He sure rattled his hocks out of the Modoc hills.”

“Aw, he comes back once in a while,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I seen him in Modoc a few weeks ago.”

“And yuh didn’t tell me?” Sody grew indignant to think that this information had been withheld.

“You still want to kill him?” asked Hashknife.

“Yo’re ---- right I do!”

“Well, you’ve got my permission,” laughed Sleepy. “But you’ve got to beat me to him. I’ve picked him, cowboy.”

They got up from the breakfast table and moved into the living-room, while Ma and Mrs. Daley cleared away the breakfast table.

Uncle Jimmy signaled Hashknife to follow him outside, and they walked to the far corner of the porch.

“Did yuh find out anythin’?” queried Uncle Jimmy.

Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“Nothin’ that would show who sold them cows of Bud’s. They’re a tight-lipped outfit over there, Uncle Jimmy.”

“----, yes,” thoughtfully, “I dunno whether we’ll ever find out the truth of it all. I hate to think that Bud is guilty.”

“I wish to gosh I could have a talk with Bud.”

“He wouldn’t talk when he was in jail, Hartley.”

“He’d talk to me or I’d knock ---- out of him.”

“Uh-huh.” Uncle Jimmy seemed a bit dubious of Hashknife’s ability to do this.

“I’ve got a hunch that Bud’s cows were shipped out of Black Wells,” said Hashknife, “but that’s as far as my hunch goes. This Jud Mahley has charge of the loadin’ corrals over there, but he won’t talk. Have yuh heard how that Red Blair is gettin’ along?”

Uncle Jimmy shook his head. He was not interested in Blair.

“That was kind of a funny deal,” observed Hashknife. “Do yuh suppose Bud had anythin’ to do with it?”

“I don’t think so.” Uncle Jimmy sucked thoughtfully on his old pipe. “Red Blair and Bud never had any trouble that I know about.”

“Blair works for Lavelle, don’t he? Who else is in that outfit?”

Uncle Jimmy named over the other cowboys of the 76A. Hashknife listened thoughtfully, squinting his eyes away from the smoke of his cigaret.

“Brent Allard, eh? Kinda sad-lookin’ jasper, with a lock of hair that’s always in his eyes?”

“Yeah.” Uncle Jimmy looked up quickly. “You know him?”

Hashknife grinned softly and threw away his cigaret.

“I know a Brent Allard, and I’d like to see if this is the one. Does Bud Daley know Jud Mahley?”

“Yeah, he knows him. Everybody around here knows Jud. There’s a fat reward out for Bud. The country offers two thousand dollars, dead or alive; and the bank says he’s worth a thousand to them.”

“That’s a lot of money, Uncle Jimmy.” The old man nodded slowly.

“Yeah--dead or alive,” he said sadly and jerked his head toward the door. “I ain’t told May. She’s got enough to worry about without knowin’ that the law is willin’ to pay for Bud’s carcass. I sure feel sorry for her, Hartley. She’s jist a kid.

“Her and Bud was jist gittin’ a good start, when he got hit with all the troubles in the world. I got sore as ---- at Bud, ’cause he wouldn’t talk to nobody. I went down there and argued with him, but he didn’t seem to give a ---- what they done to him. Why, that ---- fool seemed pleased when the judge sentenced him.”

Uncle Jimmy snorted his disgust and knocked the dottle from his pipe against his spurred heel.

“Wouldn’t even talk to May,” added Hashknife.

“Not to anybody. It looked bad to the jury. What could a lawyer do in a case like that? They’ve got to know whether yo’re guilty or not, before they can prove that yuh ain’t. But they never did know about Bud.”

“That’s the one big question,” observed Hashknife. “If we only knew why he wouldn’t talk.”

* * * * *

Hashknife did not get a chance to talk with Mrs. Daley before they left the JM ranch. He and Sleepy had ridden all night and were too weary to think of much except a chance to stretch out and sleep.

They went back to Bud’s ranch-house, stabled and fed their horses and slept until mid-afternoon. Bud had cleaned out their food supply, which had not been replenished; so they decided to go to Modoc and eat.

At the restaurant they heard that Red Blair was dead, but it did not seem to have excited the town greatly. They met the sheriff, who seemed disposed to talk, or rather to ask questions; so they got away from him as gently as possible and went over to the Rest Ye All.

Lavelle was behind the bar, talking to the bartender, but turned as they came up. He squinted at them closely and smiled as he placed a bottle and glasses on the bar.

“We’ll have some see-gars,” said Hashknife, shoving the bottle aside and leaning against the bar.

“That stuff is ten years old,” stated Lavelle.

“Let her live to a ripe old age,” grinned Hashknife. “We got hold of some bad liquor over at Black Wells, and it kinda cured us of the drink habit. A shot of that stuff is the best temperance lecture I ever attended.”

“Strong?” queried Lavelle.

“Well, I took one drink and it affected the moon,” grinned Sleepy. “And that’s no danged imagination either.”

Lavelle laughed and handed out a box of dusty-looking cigars.

“I remember that you said you was going to Black Wells,” he said indifferently. “It used to be a wild place a few years ago.”

“I’ll bet they’re wild yet,” laughed Sleepy. “I wrote my initials on the back-bar of the Welcome saloon with a six-gun.”

“You did?”

Lavelle grew interested and would like to have heard more, but Sleepy decided that he had told quite enough. Sleepy dropped his cigar into a cuspidor and began rolling a cigaret.

“Did you hear that Red Blair died?” asked Lavelle.

“Three times,” said Hashknife. “First two times I didn’t believe it, but three times is a charm. Did he ever wake up?”

Lavelle shook his head. He did not like the way Hashknife treated the subject, but could hardly see where it would be policy to chide him for his attitude.

“There’s three thousand reward for Bud Daley.”

Hashknife grinned at Lavelle’s statement but suddenly sobered and leaned across the bar toward Lavelle.

“I hear you’ve lost yore luck, Lavelle?”

Not a muscle of the gambler’s face moved for several moments. Then his eyelids twitched slightly, and his lips parted.

“What do you mean, Hartley?” he asked coldly.

“I just heard that Sody Slavin busted the stud-game last night. I hear that you quit cold, with the best cards in sight.”

Lavelle laughed, but without mirth. Hashknife was looking him straight in the eyes, and the gambler turned his head away.

“Well, he didn’t break me,” he said slowly, “and as far as quitting--I know enough to quit when I’m beat, Hartley.”

Hashknife grinned thoughtfully and tossed away his cigar. He knew that Lavelle was mad, and wondered just how far he could go with his baiting. Lavelle had started to go around the end of the bar, when Hashknife turned to him again.

“What’s yore particular hoodoo, Lavelle?”

“Hoodoo?” Lavelle stopped and looked queerly at Hashknife. Then he came back.

“What did you mean by that?” he asked softly.

“Yore bad-luck medicine,” explained Hashknife, although he knew that Lavelle understood the question.

“I’ve knowed a lot of superstitious gamblers,” continued Hashknife after a moment. “They believed in signs and all that kinda stuff, and I wondered what yore pet hoodoo was, thasall.”

Lavelle laughed shortly and shook his head.

“Not me, Hartley. I believe in good luck and bad luck, but I have no charms to bring me luck.”

“No, I didn’t think yuh did,” said Hashknife.

Lavelle looked quickly at him, but did not reply. Sleepy was itching to know what it was all about, but he knew, deep down in his heart, that Hashknife was not talking in vain. Lavelle walked from behind the bar and went toward the back room without another word, while Hashknife laughed silently and rested his elbows on the bar.

A moment later Monte Sells, Frank Asher, Mesa Caldwell and Brent Allard came, rattling their spurs and arguing over the fact that the sheriff wanted them to start on their man-hunt today. Monte glanced quickly at Hashknife and Sleepy and stepped aside to see what Brent Allard would do.

Brent was in the rear, crowding in behind Caldwell, who also stepped aside, leaving Brent almost within reach of Hashknife. He looked up and stopped in his tracks. No one spoke. Brent’s two hands had been against Caldwell’s back, and they remained in that same position for several moments. Then they slowly relaxed, but he kept them above his belt-line.

Hashknife was grinning at him, and a foolish grin came to Brent Allard’s lips.

“Hyah, Allard?” said Hashknife easily. “Long time I no see yuh. Wyomin’, wasn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.” Allard wet his lips with a dry tongue and cleared his throat raspingly. “I--I come there from Oklyhomy.”

“That’s right,” nodded Hashknife. “I remember hearin’ that the sheriff run yuh out of Oklahoma. Boot-leggin’ to the Injuns, wasn’t it, Allard?”

Allard grinned foolishly; Monte snorted disgustedly. He felt that Allard was too frightened to resent an insult. Hashknife’s eyes flashed to Monte, considered him coldly for a moment, and turned back to Allard.

“You workin’ for the 76A, ain’t yuh, Allard?”

“Yeah. I’ve been here quite a while, Hartley.”

“Wasn’t it one of yore outfit that got shot out where we’re livin’? We packed him in. We jist found out that he died.”

“Yeah,” said Monte harshly, “and we’re lookin’ for the man that shot him.”

Hashknife squinted at Monte and at the rest of the 76A outfit. They shifted uneasily under his steady, half-contemptuous gaze. They remembered that Allard had declared that Hartley could read their minds, and four pairs of eyes shifted uneasily.

“You’re lookin’ for that man, are yuh?” queried Hashknife slowly.

“You’re ---- right!” grunted Monte.

“So are we,” declared Hashknife. “Come and have a drink.”

The invitation was unexpected. For a moment they hesitated, but only for a moment. They had expected trouble. Allard laughed nervously, but was the first one to reach the bar, where he filled his glass with a shaky hand.

“Here’s hopin’ we find him,” said Hashknife seriously.

“If you’re huntin’ for him,” said Allard nervously, “you won’t need hopes.”

They drank deeply, except Hashknife and Sleepy, who took cigars. Monte grinned at their choice, but the grin left his face when Hashknife said seriously--

“We was over at Black Wells yesterday, and Jud Mahley told us to give yuh his regards.”

“The ---- he did!” blurted Monte. “Can’tcha think of anythin’ funnier than that to say?”

Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head. He wanted to find out if Jud Mahley was a friend of the 76A boys--and he found out quickly.

“Mahley never meant it,” laughed Caldwell.

“We’ve got a ---- of a job ahead of us,” said Frank Asher disgustedly. “We’re goin’ to help the sheriff find Bud Daley.”

“That’ll be quite a chore, I’d imagine.” Hashknife hunched backward against the bar and proceeded to crumble the cigar between his long fingers.

“I’ve knowed Bud a long time, and if he ain’t changed, you’ll have to bring him in on a stretcher.”

“And we ain’t got a ---- thing agin’ him,” complained Brent Allard. “The law don’t mean nothin’.”

“It never did, to you, did it?” laughed Hashknife.

“Aw, you know what I mean,” protested Allard. “Bud’s all right.”

“He’s all wrong,” said Hashknife. “The danged fool never tried to get away. That bandit had to almost throw him off the train.”

The 76A boys exchanged quick glances, as if questioning each other. Monte half-smiled and moved in a trifle closer. It was evident that he did not want any one, except those immediately concerned, to hear his question.

“You got a good look at the two men who took Bud away from Dug Breed, didn’t yuh?” he asked.

Hashknife nodded seriously, but his face broke into a grin.

“Yeah, we got a good look--especially into the muzzle of their guns. They were masked, yuh know.”

“I _sabe_ that part of it,” nodded Monte. “It’s kinda hard to describe a masked man. But I thought that mebbe yuh was able to kinda pay attention to their size and--you know what I mean.”

“Didn’t they say anythin’?” asked Allard.

“One of ’em did,” said Hashknife. “But I reckon he changed his voice quite a lot. The other one said nothin’. If I remember right, they were both kinda tall. One was kinda skinny--the one that didn’t talk--but the other one wasn’t fat.”

“That’s a good description,” stated Mesa Caldwell.

“It must ’a’ been quite a good-sized gang,” observed Sleepy, “and it looks like they intended to take Bud away from the sheriff. They never touched any of the other passengers--never even went into the cars.”

Monte scratched his chin thoughtfully and motioned for the bartender to fill up their glasses again.

“The express robbery must ’a’ been done by tenderfeet,” grinned Hashknife. “They never got a cent for their trouble.”

“I dunno what they’d expect to get on a branch railroad.” Thus Sleepy wisely. “They never carry money.”

“Sometimes they do,” said Monte. “The mines at Dixon ship bullion from the Kalura, and the money for a big pay-roll comes in from the bank at Burke.”

“They was probably figurin’ on that pay-roll money,” observed Hashknife. “Somebody must ’a’ got the wrong dope.”

“Yeah, they must have,” agreed Monte dryly.

In a few minutes Charley Morse came in and told them that Breed was in need of their services. Hashknife and Sleepy watched them all ride out of town, heading into the hills, with the intention of looking through the Crooked Cañon country.

* * * * *

The sun was nearly down when Hashknife and Sleepy rode in at the ranch again and found Mrs. Daley and Dinah Blewette there. Dinah had driven her down there in the buckboard after some clothes she had forgotten to take with her.

Dug Breed and the man-hunters had crossed the road just ahead of them, and Mrs. Daley questioned Hashknife as to whether some one had given the sheriff information about Bud’s hiding-place. Hashknife assured her that no one seemed to know just where Bud was located, but that Breed was making the search on general principles.

She seemed to gather a certain amount of satisfaction from this, but she knew that evading the posse would only make him safe for the time being. Dinah took no part in the conversation; being content to nod or shake his head.

Mrs. Daley gathered up what articles she desired and was putting them into a battered telescope valise, when there came the sound of a running horse and a muttered curse, and a man came up the steps. He flung himself into the doorway, leaning heavily against his elbow, swinging a six-shooter in his right hand.

It was Bud Daley, unkempt, unshaven; his face drawn and haggard. Hashknife had taken a step toward him, but Bud’s leveled gun caused him to stop quickly.

“Bud, don’t yuh know me?” asked Hashknife.

Bud stared at him, licking his dry lips.

“Good ----! Hashknife Hartley!” Bud’s voice was a croak. “And Sleepy Stevens! Where did you come from?”

His gun-hand waved and dropped to his side weakly.

“Bud, you’ve been hit, ain’t yuh?” Hashknife crossed quickly to him, as Bud lurched forward.

“In the leg,” breathed Bud. “The posse is close behind me.”

Sleepy quickly closed the door behind Bud, who sank down in a chair. May, her face white with fear, threw an arm around Bud’s shoulder and began crying.

Hashknife ran to a window and scanned the hills, which were already dimming in the fading light.

“How far behind yuh is that posse, Bud?” he asked.

“Close,” panted Bud. “I think they knew I was headin’ home.”

“Where did they hit yuh?” queried Sleepy. “In the leg?”

“Yeah. Through my thigh, I think. It’s bleedin’ quite a lot. They’ve got me, I guess. I had a rifle; but it wouldn’t do me no good to kill ’em. Can’t kill everybody, yuh know. Ha-ha-ha!”

Bud laughed from sheer weakness, but there was no mirth in it.

“Don’t, Buddie,” begged his wife. “Don’t laugh like that. We’ll take you to a doctor.”

“And from there to the pen,” said Bud wearily. “Anyway, it’s better than dodgin’ in the hills. It’s a losin’ game. But, Hashknife, where did you fellers come from? I can’t believe it’s you two.”

“It’s us all right,” said Hashknife, his face glued to the window pane.

The posse had come out on the sky-line of a hill, about five hundred yards away and were bunched, as they debated.

Just away from the front porch stood Bud’s horse, one foot on the dragging reins, its head down as it panted wearily from its long run. The buggy team was tied near the back of the house, out of sight of the sheriff and posse.

Hashknife turned from the window. Sleepy had cut away part of Bud’s overall-clad leg and was trying to stop the flow of blood. Hashknife examined it quickly and slapped Bud on the shoulder.

“It went plumb through, Bud. You don’t need a doctor; we’ll fix it up ourselves.”

* * * * *

Dug Breed was highly elated, but still cautious. He knew that Bud was in that house, but getting him out might be a different matter; hence the deliberation on the hilltop.

“He’s hit, I tell yuh,” insisted Charley Morse. “I could tell the way he was ridin’--one foot out of his stirrup.”

“That’s right,” admitted Breed. “He’s plugged; but that makes him a bad _hombre_ to drag out of a hole. If he wasn’t hurt, I don’t think he’d hole up at home. Kinda funny he didn’t shoot back at us, though.”

“Nothin’ funny about that,” snorted Monte. “Bud ain’t no danged fool, Dug. He knows too much to waste ammunition on flyin’ targets. From now on, he’ll shoot--and he’s a good shot, too.”

Breed nodded, as he squinted at the house below them. Then:

“We’ll surround the place. Monte, you and Caldwell swing to the left and work into that old washout over there; Frank can watch the front, while me and Charley and Brent can swing to the right and work in back of the barn and corrals.”

“You’ve overlooked another bet,” said Brent Allard quickly. “There’s Hartley and Stevens to look out for.”

Breed squinted at Allard and back at the house.

“Do yuh think they’d back Bud’s play?”

“You’d be a ---- fool to take a chance on ’em not doin’ it. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” Breed deliberated, but shook his head stubbornly.

“We’ll go ahead with our program. Better move fast, ’cause a movin’ object is harder to hit. Let’s go.”

Swiftly they separated and began their encircling movement. Frank Asher rode straight down the hill, with the intention of reaching a thicket of greasewood about three hundred yards from the house, but he had only gone a short distance, when he drew his gun and sent two shots into the air.

A man had run from the front door of the ranch-house--a man who limped badly. He caught the horse and mounted slowly. Breed had heard the shots and drew rein, swinging up his rifle. His horse lunged badly on the steep side-hill, making it impossible for him to draw a bead; so he dismounted and began shooting.

But the rider was wasting no time in seeing where the shots were coming from. He swung his horse around the corner of the house, galloped straight across the open ranch-house yard, hurdled the fence and bored straight into the hills. The encircling movement had failed.

Breed swore bitterly and mounted again, racing ahead as he stuffed shells into the loading-gate of his rifle. Monte Sells and Mesa Caldwell were riding swiftly along the slope to the left of the ranch-house, while Frank Asher swung wide and followed in the wake of Breed and the other two riders.

And far ahead of them rode the quarry, riding into the dusk of the hills, holding a straight line toward the Crooked Cañon country. Mile after mile reeled away behind them. It was almost dark now. Breed scowled at the fading light as he roweled his weary horse to greater efforts.

Suddenly he threw up his head and laughed triumphantly. Monte and Caldwell, better mounted than the rest, had caused the rider to swing farther to the right, and Breed had caught a glimpse of him, cutting around the side of a cañon, heading toward the bottom.

“Got him, by ----!” swore Breed.

He yelled shrilly at Morse and Brent Allard and waved at Frank Asher. Swiftly they gathered around him, their horses blowing heavily.

“We’ve got him, boys!” panted Breed. “He’s headed into that blind cañon just ahead of us. All we’ve got to do is to smoke him out. C’mon.”

“Bud wouldn’t head into a blind cañon,” protested Allard.

“Well, he did,” said Breed, laughing. “He didn’t know that I seen him, and he thinks that’s the last place we’d ever look for him.”

A blind cañon is one of those freaks of nature; like an alley, which ends in a blank wall. Usually the sides are precipitous, as is the end. Even the wild things shun them as they would a trap.

The entrance to this one looked harmless enough, sloping away gently to the bottom; but further along the sides reared higher and higher, impossible of foot-hold. Monte and Caldwell came in from the opposite side and the whole posse met at the mouth of the trap where they stopped to rest their horses.

“He can’t get away,” declared Monte, staring into the gloom of the cañon. “I’ve been in there, and I know that you’d have to have wings to get out. But how did Bud happen to run in there? He knows this place as well as we do.”

Breed laughed and dismounted to tighten his cinch.

“That’s where he tried to outsmart us, Monte. He figured that we’d never look for him here. It was lucky that I seen him headin’ down here. We’ll move in to where the sides break straight up and bottle him up. It would be dangerous to move in on him in the dark. He’s hurt, I think; and a night up there won’t make him any more active than the law allows.”

Breed swung back on his horse and they moved ahead. Suddenly they stopped. A rider was coming slowly out of the narrow neck of the cañon. Breed threw up his rifle, but the rider did not pay any attention to it. He was looking up at the sides of the cañon. Then he moved in closer; close enough for them to see that it was Hashknife Hartley.

Breed swore hollowly and lowered his gun. Allard laughed nervously, a chuckling laugh of vindication. Hashknife rode up to them, his face serious, as he motioned back toward the far end of the cañon.

“Say,” he remarked easily, “that ---- cañon’s blind.”

“Huh!” Breed crowded the disgust of his soul into one grunt. The rest of the posse merely nodded.

“Yessir, it’s blind,” continued Hashknife. “A feller could never get out that way.”

Then he seemed to consider the posse for the first time.

“You fellers goin’ in that way? Don’t do it.”

Breed spluttered angrily for several moments before his tongue finally shaped words.

“Say, what in ---- do yuh think you’re doin’? You--huh!”

“Me?” queried Hashknife innocently. “Whatcha mean?”

“You know ---- well what I meant! I’ve got a good notion to arrest you.”

“Yeah?” Hashknife seemed amused. “Why don’tcha, Breed?”

Breed looked around at his posse as if trying to seek an answer, but he found them grinning foolishly. Brent Allard seemed almost convulsed with mirth, and it angered Breed.

“What the ---- tickles you so ---- much, Allard?”

“Wall,” laughed Allard, “I told you you’d be a ---- fool to overlook Hartley.”

“Yeah!” Breed snorted and looked back at Hartley, who was grinning softly and offering his sack of tobacco to Monte.

“I reckon we better call it a day,” observed Caldwell. “I know I’ve had all the exercise I need, and my horse twisted two shoes off on that scab-rock below here.”

Breed swung his horse around and led them back out of the cañon to the open hills, where he stopped and faced Hashknife.

“Hartley,” he said, “I won’t forget this. You made a monkey out of me and my posse.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hashknife soberly. “I didn’t mean for yuh to ever catch me; but that danged cañon ruined it.”

“How about goin’ back to the ranch?” suggested Morse.

“Not my gang,” said Monte firmly. “If Bud stayed there while we ran the heads off our broncs, he ain’t there now.”

“Stevens would see that Bud was taken care of,” laughed Allard.

“All right!” snapped Breed. “It’s too late to do anythin’ tonight anyway.”

He swung his horse to the left and they headed across the dusky hills toward Modoc town while Hashknife rode alone down the hills toward the Triangle-D, grinning into the night.