Dancing Devil range
“I’ll tell yuh,” replied Hashknife soberly, “if we can buy at a good
price, we might take over a spread ourselves.”
This seemed to confuse Colton. He said, “Well, I--yes, of course. I had
no idea you--well, why not?”
“If we got it cheap enough,” said Hashknife. “We like this range. After
all, a feller ought to settle down.”
“Yes, I believe--we will talk about it again, Mr. Hartley.”
Mr. Colton went on. Sleepy braced against a porch-post, looked
inquiringly at Hashknife.
“Settlin’ down, eh?” he remarked. “That’s wonderful. Goin’ to buy a
ranch. Total assets about twenty-five dollars.”
“If we could get it cheap enough--” said Hashknife.
* * * * *
Aunt Judy and Uncle Andy came to town before noon, and were talking with
Hashknife and Sleepy in front of the sheriff’s office, when Buck Nolan
came riding up to the office. He nodded to them, started for the office
doorway, when the sheriff came out.
“Nick, there’s a buggy wrecked in Horseshoe Canyon,” said Nolan. “I saw
where it went over the rip-rap, and it’s down there about a hundred feet
below the grade. I was comin’ down from Northgate and--”
“Yuh mean--a buggy and team went off the grade, Buck?”
“It sure looks like it, Nick. Yuh can see some of the buggy, all smashed
up on the rocks down there.”
“I’ll get Frenchy. You take us back there, Buck. Maybe Hartley and
Stevens will go with us; we’ll need plenty help. I wonder who went off
the grade.”
Hashknife looked curiously at Buck Nolan, big, raw-boned, just a bit
gray. Buck was riding a sorrel, bearing his own brand. Then Hashknife
and Sleepy hurried to the stable to get their horses. Sleepy said, “I’m
wonderin’ a little, too, Gardner.”
“We don’t know the man--if its Regan,” said Hashknife.
“I know what yuh mean,” said Sleepy.
It was several miles out to Horseshoe Canyon. Frenchy went along, but
showed little interest. He was sober, but his brown eyes were bloodshot
from too much whiskey.
The coroner went in a spring-wagon, taking plenty ropes along. The
wheelmarks on the edge of the grade were very plain, and they could see
part of the smashed buggy. There was a trail into the canyon just above
the wreck, and they went down on foot.
Slim Regan had been thrown clear of the buggy, but straight into a
jumble of jagged rocks. The scent of whiskey still lingered on the dead
man’s clothes, and there was a smashed bottle in the bottom of the
buggy. They took the body to open ground, where the coroner examined the
pockets of his clothes, but all they found was a pocket-knife and a few
dollars in silver coin. There was not a scrap of paper to identify him.
It was quite a task, getting the body back to the grade. The coroner
said that there was no question of its being an accident. Hashknife made
no comments. The coroner could be right, except that the wheel marks on
the edge of the grade showed the buggy traveling south, instead of
north. Sleepy had noticed that detail, too.
As they rode together off the grade, the latter said, “If Slim Regan
wanted to pile his carcass into the canyon, why did he turn the buggy
around and make the dive? It’s just as fatal, goin’ north as it is
south.”
Hashknife nodded grimly. He said, “Keep yore eyes open, pardner--there’s
brains workin’ down here. They didn’t want anybody to know that Regan
was in Tomahawk Flats last night. Regan rode up in front of the
Pasatiempo Saloon and asked a man where Tom Colton lived. Who was the
man he asked, Sleepy?”
Sleepy scowled thoughtfully, and finally said, “Hashknife, I ain’t
exactly sure. Yuh see, I wasn’t payin’ much attention, but I kinda seem
to remember that it was Gus Staley. I can’t be sure--but I think it was.
He works for that feller Hack.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Regan went to see Tom Colton, stayed there maybe
half an hour, and then pulled out. Regan is a gambler.”
“Was,” corrected Sleepy, “until he hit bedrock. What do yuh make out of
it?”
Hashknife didn’t say. He thought it over and finally remarked, “Sleepy,
I wish we knew who the man was who walked in the dark and wore spurs.”
“And rode a Bar N roan,” added Sleepy. “But what does it add up to?”
“I dunno. Doc Talbert said he’d make a complete examination of the body.
That might help our case.”
But Doctor Talbert’s examination didn’t help them any. Any evidence of
foul play, except by gun-shot, would have been wiped out by the man’s
fall onto the rocks. Nick McGarvin asked that everybody take a look at
the body, hoping that someone would identify him, but to no avail. The
keeper of the livery-stable at Northgate had rented him the horse and
buggy, but had no idea where the man was going. He gave the name of Jim
Hendricks, paid in advance for the rig, and said he would be gone
overnight. Asked about Hendrick’s having any baggage, the stableman said
he wasn’t sure, but believed the man had a small valise.
Hashknife met Sam Hack and Gus Staley on the street and stopped to talk
with them.
“Did you look at the dead man, Staley?” he asked.
“Yeah--sure, I seen him, Hartley. I don’t--”
“Think back,” said Hashknife. “Wasn’t he the same man who drove up in
front of the Pasatiempo that night and asked you how to find Thomas
Colton’s house?”
Gus Staley looked blankly at Hashknife. “I dunno what yuh mean,” he
replied. “I never seen the man before. You must mean somebody else. I
never seen him in a buggy in my life.”
“I see,” murmured Hashknife. “Well, it don’t matter.”
“Didn’t the man run off the grade _comin’_ here?” asked Hack.
“Yeah, it looks thataway,” replied Hashknife. “A couple hundred yards
further along the grade is a place where he could turn his outfit
around. Maybe he was comin’ back--I dunno.”
“You ain’t sure he _ever_ was down here, are yuh?” asked Hack.
“Him or his ghost.”
“Ghost?” Staley spat viciously into the dusty street. “You don’t believe
in ghosts, do yuh, Hartley?”
“I know what I have seen,” replied Hashknife seriously, “but I never try
to impose my ideas on other people.”
“That’s all damn foolishment!” snorted Staley. “When yo’re dead--yo’re
dead, and that’s all there is to it.”
“That’s the best way to look at it,” remarked Hashknife.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to the funeral of Chiquita Morales, but
they heard that Frenchy Arnett paid most of the expenses. Thomas Colton
had approached Uncle Andy regarding selling the AD, but Uncle Andy
avoided making any definite price. He knew he would have to sell
eventually, but held off. Hashknife talked with Johnny at the jail, but
Johnny was little help. He stuck to his story that he’d traded the ring
to Chiquita for a pinto horse, and that she didn’t wear the ring to that
dance in Mexico. Hashknife didn’t tell Johnny that he’d found the ring
in the Morale’s buggy. Johnny said, “I’m stuck, Hashknife. If Chiquita
had lived, she could have testified that I didn’t own the ring.”
“That,” said Hashknife, “is why she died. Johnny, do yuh know of any man
around here she liked well enough to give that ring?”
Johnny shook his head. “Chiquita, I believe, was a good girl. She liked
a good time, and she didn’t have to want for men to take her places. She
wanted money, fine clothes and all that. Yuh see, a cowpoke’s wages
don’t cover that, Hashknife.”
“Where did she get her finery, Johnny. Pete Morales couldn’t afford to
buy things for her.”
“Yeah, that’s right--I never thought of that. Well, she never tried to
get money from anybody--as far as I know.”
“Johnny, did Harry Colton ever go out with her?”
Johnny leaned against the bars of his cell and thought it over. Finally
he said quietly, “I’m just wonderin’.”
Johnny might have said more, but Frenchy Arnett came in. He was sober,
but grim-faced. Hashknife said, “Frenchy, wouldn’t you like to know who
shot Chiquita?”
Frenchy shut his eyes tightly for a moment and his jaw tightened. “Sure
would,” he said quietly, but firmly. “I know she went to a dance with
Oren Blakely. That was right; Oren didn’t do it. Damn right, I’d like to
know, Hartley.”
“Maybe you can help us find him, Frenchy. Did you ever give her money to
buy clothes?”
“Give Chiquita money? No! Why do you ask that?”
“They say she wore nice clothes.”
“Chiquita always looks nice--silk skirt, pretty shoes.”
“Pete Morales didn’t have money to buy them with, Frenchy.”
Frenchy thought it over. Suddenly he faced Hashknife, his eyes hot. “You
mean to say somebody gave her money--Chiquita?”
“Keep cool,” advised Johnny. “Hashknife wants to help.”
“She was my girl,” said Frenchy huskily. “If she wanted money, I’d give
it to her. Who gave her money? Oren Blakely didn’t have money to give to
women. Who gave her money?”
“You knew about Johnny tradin’ her that ring for a pinto?”
“Sure--I heard that. That is all right--the pinto belonged to her.”
“Frenchy, Chiquita loaned or sold that ring to the man who killed her.
Johnny is in jail for a robbery, and the evidence is that ring he traded
Chiquita. She could have told who had that ring. She didn’t tell,
because she didn’t want that man in jail--but he didn’t take a chance.”
Frenchy shrugged his shoulders. “Chiquita go out with other men.
Sometimes I warn not here--sometimes I have no money to spend. I am not
her husband--I can’t say no. Maybe she don’t tell me. That is her
business.”
“Frenchy, did she ever go out with Harry Colton?” asked Hashknife.
Frenchy’s lips shut to a thin line and he walked over to a barred
window, but came back.
“I think she did,” he said quietly. “I accuse her of it, but she just
laughed at me. How did you know this, Hartley?”
“I didn’t--I just wanted to find out what men she went out with.
Chiquita is gone now, Frenchy. Nothing can change that. Our job is to
find the man who did it.”
“Sure, she’s gone--now,” breathed Frenchy and walked away, his eyes
filled with tears. Hashknife looked at Johnny and shook his head. “I’ll
see yuh later,” he told Johnny.
* * * * *
Hashknife met the sheriff and Sleepy in the office. Hashknife said,
“Nick, I’ve had a talk with Johnny and Frenchy.”
“Yeah? Did yuh find out anythin’ yuh already didn’t know?”
“If anybody asks yuh, Nick,” replied Hashknife soberly, “you can tell
’em that Dancin’ Devil is in for some surprisin’ things--very soon. In
fact, before Christmas.”
Nick McGarvin’s jaw sagged a trifle. “Yuh mean--yuh know somethin’,
Hashknife?”
“You’d be surprised, Nick.”
Leaving the sheriff to think this over, Hashknife and Sleepy walked back
toward the hotel.
“He’d be surprised, eh?” remarked Sleepy.
“That’s what I told him, Sleepy.”
“What’d he be surprised about?”
“The few things I know, pardner. Listen, will yuh? Our only chance to
find out somethin’ is to scare the guilty into doin’ somethin’. It
works, when brains fail--and I don’t mind admittin’ that mine have
failed.”
“I know what yuh mean,” said Sleepy quietly. “We paint black circles
around our heads, with a bull’s-eye in the middle.”
“That’s right. Nick’s human. He’ll pass the word.”
“Well, all I can say is that we better find a quiet, remote spot, where
we can practice dodgin’ bullets,” said Sleepy. “Yuh know, I think I like
it better than settin’ around, pardner. This ain’t our idea of a good
time, anyway.”
“But just remember, Sleepy; we ain’t dealin’ with dumb rustlers in this
game--but I figure that even the smartest men will get scared and make a
break--when they’re scared, enough.”
* * * * *
Tomorrow night would be Christmas Eve. They brought m a big fir tree for
the little church, but it seemed that the Christmas spirit was lacking.