Dancing Devil range
The big sheriff stared at Jim Bailey, while Frenchy Arnett said, “Aw,
Gawd, they didn’t do that, Jim!”
Bailey nodded grimly. “She musta been in town, Frenchy--in a buggy. They
tied the horse about a mile out of town and shot her.”
Hashknife did not ask any questions as the sheriff said wearily, “We’re
headin’ home right now, Jim. Doc Miles left about three o’clock with the
body of Oren Blakely.”
“It’s shore gettin’ to be a awful tough country,” sighed Jim Bailey.
“She was settin’ there in the buggy--”
“Shut up!” snapped Frenchy sharply. He dropped his reins and walked over
to the big, sliding doors, where he stood, staring out at the street.
Jim Bailey shook his head.
“Chiquita was Frenchy’s sweetheart,” whispered the sheriff.
“That’s what _he_ thought--mebbe,” said Bailey.
Bailey and Frenchy rode ahead, leaving the sheriff to ride with
Hashknife and Sleepy.
“We heard that the bank went busted in Tomahawk Flats,” remarked
Hashknife.
“Robbed,” corrected the sheriff. “Three men.”
“Cleaned it out, eh?”
“Nothin’ left--and it busted a lot of folks. Yuh see, Thomas Colton
owned the bank--the Cattleman’s Independent Bank. Old Ed Weed was the
cashier. It was a good bank, too, with plenty cash. Tom Colton is a fine
feller--everybody liked him. He played square with everybody--never
hounded ’em on mortgages and all that.
“Well, a short time ago, three men got into Ed Weed’s house, made him
give ’em the combination of the safe, took his keys, tied Old Ed up so
tight that he ain’t rid of the kinks yet, and took their sweet time in
bustin’ the bank. They emptied the vault. As far as we can find out,
there wasn’t a thin dime left. It broke a lot of folks, I’ll tell yuh
that. I lost seven hundred dollars myself.”
“Where,” asked Hashknife, “does this Chiquita Morales figure in the
deal, Sheriff?”
“She don’t. Her father, Pete Morales, owns a little rancho. Chiquita is
about eighteen. I reckon, and as pretty as a bug’s ear. I’m past forty
and I’m married, but every time she looked at me and grinned--I lost at
least fifteen years of age. They’re poor, them Morales are. Poor old
Pete, this’ll hit him hard.”
“No idea who busted the bank, eh?” queried Sleepy.
The sheriff sat disgustedly. “We’ve got a prisoner,” he said.
“Oh, yuh caught one of ’em, eh?” remarked Hashknife.
“Quien sabe? Yuh see, it’s thisaway. Andy Davidson--we call him Uncle
Andy, and his wife, Aunt Judy--the finest folks yuh ever knowed--have a
son, Johnny. Johnny’s fine. Hell, yuh can’t have a pa and ma like them,
and not be fine. Johnny’s engaged to marry Nell Frawley on Christmas
Eve. Well, Johnny’s in jail.”
“It don’t seem to work out,” said Hashknife.
* * * * *
“That’s right--but there he is. Yuh see, Johnny wears a ring. That is,
he did. Navajo, I reckon. Big ring, silver and with a turquoise cross.
Anybody’d know that ring. Tom Weed says that one of the men who robbed
the bank wore that ring. Johnny didn’t have it on his finger when we
arrested him, and he can’t tell us where it is. He just sets there in
his cell, staring at the bars. It’s a tough situation, Hartley.”
“Well, can’t he prove where he was that night?” asked Sleepy.
“If he can--he won’t. Yuh can’t get a word out of him.”
“What does his girl think of the deal?” asked Sleepy.
“Nell Frawley. Lord, I dunno what she thinks. Nell is one of the finest
yuh ever seen, and yuh can’t beat her folks. They got hit awful hard in
that bank bust, but I don’t reckon they got hit as hard as Uncle Andy
Davidson. He’s flat--but he ain’t kickin’. If Johnny was out of
jail--well, I don’t think Uncle Andy is givin’ a thought to losin’ the
money.”
“I can imagine,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “A fine Christmas for
folks like that.”
“That’s right, Hartley--I’d plumb forgot about Christmas. Peace on
earth--don’t fit so good in Dancin’ Devil Valley this season.”
After a full minute of silent riding the sheriff commented, “I plumb
forgot to ask you fellers how come yo’re headin’ for Dancin’ Devil
Valley?”
Hashknife studied the bobbing ears of his horse for several moments, his
eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he looked at the sheriff and said,
“Sheriff you know what a wild goose is, don’t yuh?”
“Of course, I do.”
“We’re chasin’ one,” said Hashknife.
The sheriff scratched his stubbled chin, looked sideways at Hashknife,
but rode on, thinking it over. These two rather puzzled the law officer.
They looked like a pair of drifting cowpokes, but why would a drifting
cowpoke be looking for wild geese in the Dancing Devil country, he
wondered. Funny thing, too--when that Hartley person looked at you and
said something--you believed him. Even such a fantastic thing as chasing
a wild goose.
It was afternoon, when they arrived in Tomahawk Flats, and the sheriff
and coroner left immediately to get the body of the murdered Mexican
girl. Men had guarded it since the discovery. Hashknife and Sleepy
registered at the hotel, where folks talked about the crime wave.
The murder of Oren Blakely was secondary in importance. A man might get
killed at any time, but for somebody to deliberately murder a girl--that
needed attention.
“I seen Pete Morales and his old woman a while ago,” one man said.
“Gawd, you’d think the roof fell on both of ’em.”
“It shore did,” nodded a grizzled cowman. “I lost one--once--but she
wasn’t shot to death. That’s worse--if it can be.”
“Yeah, I knew. Mrs. Morales just sat there, countin’ her beads, movin’
her lips, never looked up at all. She wasn’t cryin’--jist countin’ ’em,
I reckon.”
“I kinda figured that her and Frenchy would get hitched,” said another
of the men. “They used to go down into Mexico to dances, and all that.
Frenchy can talk Mexican pretty good.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went up to their room to leave their war-bags.
Sleepy flung his bag into a corner and stood there, his hands on his
hips, looking at Hashknife, who sat down to roll a cigarette.
“Go ahead, pardner--say it,” he remarked.
“Yeah! Just a couple real-estate men on horseback!” snorted Sleepy.
“Bob Marsh didn’t know things like this would happen, Sleepy; he’s no
fortune teller. It just happened, that’s all.”
“Yea-a-ah? All right--be stubborn. We’re here, ain’t we? Pitch-forked
into it by Bob Marsh. He knowed the bank was busted. Mebbe he knew
Johnny Davidson was in jail. We came straight from his dog-gone office.
Real-estate, yore eye!”
Hashknife lighted his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“It’s a terrible thing--murderin’ a girl, Sleepy.”
“That’s right--terrible! Terrible thing to murder a man, too.”
“Even if Bob Marsh knew--”
“Losin’ faith in him, eh? That’s fine. Now we can start even.”
“And there’s a job to be done, Sleepy,” after a long pause, “we’ve got a
good alibi for bein’ down here--real-estate men on horseback.”
They ate supper in a little Mexican restaurant, where they found Frenchy
Arnett, more than half-drunk, imbibing tequila with his meal. He didn’t
speak to them--merely looked at them through bloodshot eyes, and went on
drinking. Frenchy was gone, when they paid for their meal.
“Frenchy fill pretty bad--I theenk so,” said the Mexican proprietor.
“Tequila won’t help him much,” remarked Sleepy.
“Notheeng help heem much, _amigo_. Too bad.”
* * * * *
The murder of Chiquita Morales had sobered Tomahawk Flats. Even in the
big Pasatiempo Saloon men talked in subdued tones, placed chips
carefully into the jack-pots. The roulette-layout was not even
uncovered. A man said, “I’d shore like to pull the rope on that dirty
murderer.”
Another man laughed shortly and said, “Fine chance. The best our sheriff
can do is put Johnny Davidson in jail. Wouldn’t have got him, if the
blamed fool hadn’t worn that ring.”
“One cinch,” said a gambler, “they can’t put that onto Johnny; he was
locked up tight. But I can’t figure out why anybody’d shoot the girl. As
far as that goes, why was Oren Blakely shot?”
“Oren was a good _hombre_,” remarked another. “I talked with Sam Hack a
while ago, and he said that all he knew was that Oren left the ranch,
headin’ for here. Why he went to Northgate, nobody seems to know.”
“Somebody did,” said the gambler, “and that somebody had a shotgun and a
load of buckshot. Well, I dunno--it beats me.”
“Beats the sheriff, too,” said another. “You watch--he’ll never get
either of the killers.”
Hashknife and Sleepy slept late next morning, ate breakfast in the hotel
dining-room, and when they came back to the lobby they saw an elderly
couple, talking with the hotel-keeper. The man was small, thin,
bow-legged, smooth-shaved, almost bird-like in his movements. The woman
was gray-haired, tall, slender, sad-looking. The hotel-keeper saw
Hashknife and Sleepy come from the dining-room doorway, and motioned to
the man, who got up very quickly from his chair and came over to
Hashknife.
“Your name is Hartley?” he asked quietly.
“That’s right,” smiled Hashknife.
“I’m Andy Davidson--AD spread. Mind talkin’ to me for a few minutes?”
“I’d like to, Mr. Davidson.”
“Everybody calls me Uncle Andy.”
“My friends call me Hashknife, Uncle Andy.”
“Yeah, that’s what--that’s the name in the letter I got a few minutes
ago. I’ll show it to yuh.”
Hashknife read the short letter from Bob Marsh, which said:
I am in receipt of your telegram a few minutes ago, and in
reply I can say that two men, Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy
Stevens are either now in your town, or soon will be. I have
perfect confidence in them and their ability. Please keep
this confidential. For that reason I am writing you, rather
than to use a telegram.
There was a postscript, which said, “Give my regards to Sleepy.”
Hashknife smiled slowly, folded the letter and gave it back to Uncle
Andy, who was looking closely at him. Hashknife motioned to Sleepy, who
came over.
“Uncle Andy,” said Hashknife, “I want you to meet Sleepy Stevens.
Sleepy, this is Uncle Andy Davidson. He just got a letter from Bob
Marsh.”
“Bob’s quite a hand to write letters,” remarked Sleepy. “Did he send me
his regards?”
“By doggies!” exclaimed Uncle Andy. “He did just that!”
“He always does,” said Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m glad to meet yuh, Uncle
Andy.”
They shook hands, and Uncle Andy introduced them to Aunt Judy Davidson,
who also shook hands with them soberly.
“We’re in a peck of trouble, boys,” said Uncle Andy.
“We heard about it,” said Hashknife quietly. “Trouble seems plentiful
around here. Yuh see, we just got off the train at Northgate when Oren
Blakely was shot.”
“Oren was a nice boy,” offered Aunt Judy. “I’m sorry about him. Isn’t it
terrible about Chiquita Morales? I liked her.”
“Is there anybody you dislike?” asked Hashknife smiling. Aunt Judy
thought carefully, finally shaking her head. “I just can’t remember
any,” she said seriously.
They sat down and Uncle Andy said, “How much of the story have you
heard, Hashknife?”
“The sheriff told us most of it, ridin’ down here.”
“Nick has been awful nice to us,” said Aunt Judy. “It isn’t his
fault--he had to do his duty.”
“She excuses everybody,” said Uncle Andy.
“You, too?” queried Sleepy.
“Not always, Sleepy. I’m about the only person she ever blames.”
“Tell me about this ring--the evidence against yore son,” said
Hashknife.
“Well,” replied Uncle Andy, “Johnny bought it from a feller in
Northgate. It’s a big, silver contraption, and the settin’ is a
turquoise, cut in the shape of a cross. Anybody’d remember it, if they
seen it once. Awful gaudy, I thought.”
“Beautiful,” added Aunt Judy. “It was a little small for Johnny, and he
had to wear it on his little finger. Very heavy.”