Dancing Devil range
“What do yuh think of Johnny Davidson’s chances?” asked Sleepy.
“Well, I’ll tell yuh; with that ring as evidence, and with a Dancin’
Devil jury, he’s got about as much chance as a celluloid cat has in
hell. The jury will believe Ed Weed. I hate to see it happen to the
Davidson family, but Johnny is stuck.”
“What happened to the banker?” asked Sleepy.
“Oh, he’s still livin’ here. Tom Colton’s his name. Got sort of a
no-good son, named Harry. He tried to make a banker out of him, but it
didn’t work. Make a better banker for a faro game, I reckon. Drinks like
a fish, Harry does.”
After all this information Frank Olds went back to his hotel work, and
Hashknife and Sleepy walked over to the livery-stable. The stableman was
also a loquacious soul. He was standing in the rear doorway of the
stable, staring out at a rather dilapidated top-buggy. He said,
complainingly, “I wish they’d take that damn thing away from here.”
“Why?” asked Sleepy.
“That’s the buggy Chiquita Morales was killed in. They brung it here.
Said that it was mebbe evidence. Huh! Blood all over it, too. I sleep in
the tack-room--and I dream about that blasted, old buggy. Chiquita was
awful pretty. I dunno, I reckon it’ll stay there, until the sheriff
takes it away.”
Hashknife walked out and looked it over. Not much of a buggy, the worn
cushion spattered with gore, dried black now, a broken buggy-whip in the
old socket, ready to fall off the dash. Sleepy and the stableman had
turned to talk with someone, when Hashknife pulled the seat-cushion
loose from the back. Something rattled loosely, and Hashknife readied in
and picked it up. One swift glance and he put the object in his pocket,
shoved the cushion into place and walked back to the doorway.
A young man was talking with the stableman, paying him some money. He
was wearing “store-clothes,” except for his high-heel boots, and seemed
just a trifle inebriated. A good-looking young man, too, except for the
deep lines of dissipation in his face. After he went out, the stableman
said:
“That’s Harry Colton, the busted banker’s son. He keeps his horse here
in the stable, and pays his bills regular. I hate to see a young man
drinkin’ thataway. His old man tried to keep him straight, but I don’t
reckon it was any use. Too much money and nothin’ else to do.”
“Mebbe,” suggested Sleepy, “he won’t have too much money now.”
“Did yuh hear what he said?” asked the stableman.
Sleepy shook his head.
“He said he’d prob’ly have to sell his horse. Can’t afford to pay feed
bills much longer.”
“He might cut down on his whiskey bills,” suggested Hashknife.
“You don’t know Harry,” grinned the stableman.
* * * * *
They walked back to the hotel and went up to their room, where Hashknife
took the object from his pocket and placed it on the table. It was a
huge, Mexican silver ring, with a turquoise cross. Sleepy stared at it,
picked it up gingerly and examined it. He put it back on the table and
sat down by the window.
“It was under that seat cushion,” said Hashknife.
“Maybe,” suggested Sleepy, “Chiquita thought she was bein’ held up, and
hid it under the cushion.”
“It kinda figures out like this,” said Hashknife. “Chiquita made the
trade with Johnny. She wasn’t in love with Johnny, but it kinda seems
that she--well, she wasn’t a one-man woman. Before the robbery, she let
somebody have that ring. Maybe she got it back. Maybe she was scared to
keep it. Maybe she hid it under the cushion. Maybe--”
“After all that,” interrupted Sleepy, “what do yuh think actually
happened?”
“I don’t know,” grinned Hashknife, and pocketed the ring.
“This can’t help Johnny none,” said Sleepy.
“I don’t reckon it can help anybody,” smiled Hashknife, “but it’s a
mighty pretty ring.”
They went back to the hotel lobby, where they were accosted by an
elderly, well-dressed man. He said, “You are Mr. Hartley?”
“That’s my name,” nodded Hashknife.
“I am Thomas Colton, Mr. Hartley. Shall we sit down?”
Sleepy sprawled on a chair near a window, while Hashknife and Thomas
Colton, former banker, sat down together.
The banker said, “I have a confidential letter from a land syndicate in
Phoenix, saying that they are interested in buying cattle ranches in the
Dancing Devil range, as an investment, and asking about prices. Today I
received this telegram, which I will show you.”
The telegram was sent to the banker, and signed James Morison. It read:
ADVISE YOU THAT A MR. HARTLEY IS AUTHORIZED TO CONTACT RANCH
OWNERS AND CONSULT THEM ON PRICES.
Hashknife read the telegram and handed it back to Colton, who said
quietly, “The bank holds paper against nearly every ranch down
here--rather big paper, I might say, and--”
“I understand that,” interrupted Hashknife, “but mortgages have nothin’
to do with my job. I merely ask prices.”
“And I might say,” continued the banker, “that few, if any, can meet
their mortgages. Confidentially, Mr. Hartley, the ranches of this valley
are in bad shape. I mean, financially, of course.”
“Nothin’ wrong with the ranches?” queried Hashknife. “This looks like a
good range.”
“Oh, it is, indeed! That is one reason that the bank was generous. Have
you made any inquiries, Mr. Hartley?”
“I didn’t want to rush ’em,” said Hashknife. “Why?”
“Well, I--no reason at all, except that I--well, I might be able to get
a better price than you could--knowing conditions.”
Hashknife smiled as he looked at Colton. “Maybe yuh don’t think I’m the
right man to buy cattle ranches,” he suggested.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that! After all, the Cattlemen’s Association
wouldn’t recommend a--well, a man who wasn’t capable.”
“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife dryly. “You go ahead, Mr. Colton. Maybe you
can do better than I could. Anyway, it’s worth tryin’.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Hartley. I’ll see what I can do, and then we can
compare notes. I’ll see you again--and thank you. It might be well to
not mention our little talk to anyone?”
“I’ll keep still,” agreed Hashknife.
Sleepy was curious, and came over as soon as Colton left. Hashknife told
him the conversation, and Sleepy said, “What’s he tryin’ to do--beat us
out of our jobs?”
“Even a banker can make a mistake, pardner,” smiled Hashknife.,
“He’s shore mistaken if he thinks he can take our jobs over,” declared
Sleepy. “I like to draw money for loafin’.”
* * * * *
A double inquest was held next forenoon in Tomahawk Flats, and it seemed
as though everybody in Dancing Devil Valley came to listen. Because they
had been present at the shooting of Oren Blakely, both Hashknife and
Sleepy were called to the stand to testify. Both Aunt Judy and Uncle
Andy were there, and with them sat Ed Frawley and his daughter, Nell.
Huddled together were Pete Morales and his wife, listening closely, but
not understanding much of what was said. Frenchy Arnett was there, still
half-drunk. Sam Hack and his one man, Gus Staley, were there, and Uncle
Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Buck Nolan, who owned the Bar N.
There was no one to testify in the murder of Chiquita Morales. They put
Pete Morales on the stand, but Pete either didn’t understand, or had
nothing to tell them. The jury in both cases brought in the only
possible verdict--killed by a party or parties unknown.
Hashknife and Sleepy met the Davidsons on the street after the inquest,
and were introduced to Nell Frawley and her father. Nell was a pretty,
brunette, tall and willowy, but very sad over the plight of Johnny
Davidson. Aunt Judy said, “Ed, you and Nell are comin’ out to have
supper with us, and I’m askin’ Hashknife and Sleepy to come out with
us.”
“What are we waitin’ for?” asked Sleepy quickly.
“But, Aunt Judy, we didn’t intend--” began Ed Frawley.
“Don’t lie to me, Ed Frawley,” she said. “I saw that
hunger-for-sour-milk-biscuits in your eye, when I mentioned supper.”
“Well, I--uh--shore,” agreed Frawley, while Sleepy remarked:
“Speakin’ about love--I ain’t et a sour-milk biscuit since ol’ Settin’
Bull got up and leaned against a tree.”
“As Sleepy said,” remarked Uncle Andy, “what are we waitin’ for, folks?”
“It isn’t noon yet,” said Ed Frawley.
“Don’t you folks eat at noon?” asked Sleepy soberly.
“Let’s go out to the ranch,” said Aunt Judy. “I’ve got to fill him up,
before he starves on our hands.”
The ranch-house and buildings at the AD were well-kept, the grounds
clean. Uncle Andy admitted to Hashknife that Aunt Judy was responsible
for the appearance of the place.
They met Ted Evans and Eddie Connors, the two cowpokes.
“I’ve allus wanted to see what you looked like, Hartley,” remarked
Connors.
“Wanted to see what I looked like?” queried Hashknife.
“Yeah, that’s right. I heard about you up on the Wind River, and then I
heard more about yuh in Colorado, and the last feller to speak about yuh
was from the Thunder River country.”
“I didn’t know I was worth talkin’ about,” said Hashknife.
“Well, I’m tellin’ yuh,” grinned Connors. “If yo’re half as good as the
lies I’ve heard--yo’re a ring-tailed wonder.”
“I’m not, Connors,” assured Hashknife.
“Men will lie, yuh know.”
“Then I shore ran into several, Hartley--and they all lied about the
same things.” “What’s this all about?” demanded Aunt Judy.
“Somebody tryin’ to ruin my reputation, Aunt Judy.”
“Ruin it!” exclaimed Connors. “Lemme tell yuh what--”
“Don’t repeat it--there’s ladies present,” interrupted Hashknife, and
went into the house with the others.
* * * * *
Nell volunteered to help Aunt Judy in the kitchen, and two ranch owners
sat down with Hashknife and Sleepy in the main room. There was plenty of
food for conversation, but no one seemed inclined to start it, until Ed
Frawley, his pipe drawing well, said, “Andy, have you talked with Tom
Colton?”
“Not for a couple of days, Ed.”
“I talked with him this mornin’. It seems that he’s representin’ a
land-buying syndicate, and they’d like to buy the Rafter F--if they can
get it cheap enough.”
“Yea-a-ah? The buzzards are already wingin’ in, eh?”
“That’s what I told him.”
“I can see his angle,” said Uncle Andy. “We owe money to the bank, which
don’t exist now. Him bein’ the owner of the bank, wants his money out of
the deal.”
“And we can’t pay him,” said Frawley flatly. “If we get any kind of a
decent offer, we’ll have to sell.”
Uncle Andy turned to Hashknife, “Sorry to talk about somethin’ you don’t
know about,” he said. “I’ll tell yuh how I’m fixed. I owe the bank
twelve thousand dollars. Not long ago I sold a lot of beef, and I put
twenty-eight thousand dollars on deposit. I wanted to pay off that
mortgage right now, but Colton said-- Oh, I don’t understand bankin’,
Hashknife. Somethin’ about havin’ to pay a lot of interest and a bonus
if I took it up now; so I let it lay. Well, the twenty-eight thousand
dollars is gone--and I can’t pay the mortgage.”
“I’m in the same boat,” said Frawley. “My mortgage was due two days
after the robbery. I owed Colton ten thousand, and I had--well, I had
enough in there to pay it off and not mind.”
“Tough deal,” murmured Hashknife. “Just how was this robbery pulled
off?”
“I can tell yuh what Weed said,” replied Uncle Andy. “Weed is a
bachelor, livin’ alone. Been here years. He said he went to bed, but he
don’t know what time--maybe nine o’clock, and went to sleep. He don’t
know what time he woke up, but the lamp was lighted and three masked men
was around him. They told him they wanted the key to the bank and the
combination of the vault.
“One of them told him that he’d either do what they want, or they’d kill
him, take the keys to the bank and bust it with dynamite. They got the