Dancing Devil range
Someone told Hashknife that Thomas Colton was going to be the Santa
Claus for the church celebration. The Davidsons and the Frawleys were in
town, and Uncle Andy told Hashknife that Colton had asked him to make a
price on the AD.
“He wanted it in a hurry, too,” declared Uncle Andy. “I told him it
wasn’t anythin’ I could hurry with.”
“Did he suggest any price?” asked Hashknife.
“Well,” replied Uncle Andy grimly, “he said I’d be lucky to get much
more than the cost of the mortgage.”
“What about Frawley?”
“He’s goin’ to talk to Colton this afternoon, he said.”
“Tell him to hold off makin’ any deal, Uncle Andy.”
The little cowman looked quizzically at the tall cowboy.
“What’s time got to do with it, Hashknife?” he asked.
“Well, maybe a better price. Anyway, you’ve got plenty time, after the
notice of foreclosure to redeem the property.”
“Not with the mortgages from Colton. It specifies that when the bank
shuts down on the mortgage--yo’re through.”
“I see. Mortgage expires--ranch gone, eh?”
“That’s the only way he’ll loan money, Hashknife.”
A few minutes later he met Ed Frawley, who drew him aside.
“What’s goin’ on?” asked Frawley quietly. “A man over in the Pasatiempo
told me that--well, he said somethin’ was goin’ to happen before
Christmas--somethin’ you said. At least, that’s the rumor.”
“I hope it’s right, Frawley. Funny how things like that get in the
wind.”
“You mean--there’s ain’t anythin’ to it, Hashknife?”
“_Quien sabe?_” replied Hashknife soberly. “A lot can be done in an
hour--and Christmas ain’t until day after tomorrow.”
He found Sleepy in front of the hotel, and told him, “I reckon Nick
McGarvin spread the word.”
“I heard it,” nodded Sleepy. “Frenchy Arnett cornered me, and wanted to
know. He said, ‘If yuh know who shot Chiquita--don’t arrest him; just
let me know who he is.’ I said we would. Aw, I didn’t mean it--but what
else could I tell him? He ain’t no deputy sheriff now--he’s a wolf with
the rabies, pardner.”
The Davidsons and Frawleys stayed in town for supper. Hashknife and
Sleepy stayed together, ate supper in a little Mexican restaurant, where
they could sit against the wall. The Mexican who operated the
restaurant, usually very voluble, was quiet, serving the enchiladas and
frijoles hurriedly, one eye on the door.
“I wonder what he’s thinkin’,” remarked Sleepy.
“I wonder what he _knows_,” said Hashknife. “They tell me he was
Chiquita’s uncle. Maybe he don’t want his place messed up with us.”
It was dark outside, as they paid their bill. With a hand on the knob,
Hashknife drew back, turned and came back to the little counter, where
the Mexican was at his cash-box.
“_Amigo_, is there a back door to this place?” he asked*
“Sure,” nodded the Mexican. “Go t’rough the keetchen.”
They went swiftly through the kitchen, redolent with spices and other
odors, out through an old door and into the alley. There was a short,
narrow alley, leading to the main street, and they could see the
silhouette of a man, leaning against the right-hand wall, evidently
watching for somebody. Hashknife kicked a wooden box aside, making a
clatter, and the man moved quickly, stepping up on the wooden sidewalk.
Hashknife didn’t hesitate, but led the way up the alley. The man had
passed the little restaurant and was standing at the edge of the
sidewalk just beyond. It was too dark for them to see what he looked
like, except that he was tall. Finally he went on up the street toward
the hotel.
“Do yuh think he was tryin’ to dry gulch us?” asked Sleepy.
“Who knows? He was waitin’ for somebody, but we scared him away from the
alley. He could look through the window and see that we’re gone.”
They went slowly up the sidewalk, watching closely, until they were at
the front of the hotel. Hashknife peered through the window, as he heard
Frank Olds, the hotel man, speak sharply to someone. Olds was over near
the foot of the stairs, looking up toward the hallway, when he suddenly
lifted his arms, shaking his head and protesting, but began walking up
the stairs, both hands up.
Hashknife jerked away from the window, whispered sharply:
“Stay here! Trouble in there,” and ran down the alley toward the rear
stairs of the hotel.
Sleepy moved over to the open doorway of the hotel. The sheriff was
crossing the street, and Sleepy said, as he came up:
“Hold it, Nick--until we hear from Hashknife.”
“What’s wrong?” asked the big sheriff.
“I don’t know, Nick. Hashknife saw somethin’ through the window, and he
ran around to the back stairs. He told me to--”
Sleepy stopped, when two, closely spaced shots rattled the windows
beside them. Both men sprang through the doorway, into the hotel, as a
figure staggered into view, sagged at the top of the steps and came
pin-wheeling down into the lobby. Hashknife ran to the top of the
stairs, gun in hand, stopped for a moment, but came on down. Behind him
came the disheveled, excited hotel man, waving his arms.
The stranger was sprawled at the foot of the stairs, tall, gaunt,
unkempt. Hashknife was looking down at him, as Sleepy and the sheriff
came over. The excited hotel man was jabbering:
“He stuck me up, I tell yuh! Made me come up there, or he’d kill me.
Hartley, how on earth did you ever beat him? He heard you comin’ up the
stairs. How did you beat him?”
“I didn’t beat him--he missed me,” said Hashknife coldly.
“That’s Cass Trent!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Why he’s-- Hartley, there’s
a half-dozen rewards for this hombre. He’s livin’ across the border for
over a year. He’s a killer.”
“Was,” corrected Sleepy, and looked around at the crowd, swiftly
gathering. The sheriff said:
“What was Cass Trent doin’ here--stickin’ up a hotel?”
“He wasn’t stickin’ me up,” denied the hotel keeper. “He was goin’ to
bush somebody in that hallway. I came and peeked down the stairs and I
seen him. I told him to git out of here, and I was goin’ up and run him
out--but I didn’t. Man, the bore in his gun looked like a tunnel in a
hill!”
“Goin’ to bush somebody?” queried the sheriff. “Who?”
No one seemed to know. Nick McGarvin looked at Hashknife and found the
tall, lean cowboy smiling a little. The sheriff said, “Oh,” and waited
for Doctor Talbert to arrive.
A search of Trent’s pockets revealed five hundred dollars in currency,
all in a packet, and the usual impediments carried by cowboys. They took
the body to the doctor’s place. Nick McGarvin said, “He got what was
comin’ to him. Hashknife--yore cleared--and congratulations. They say
Cass Trent never missed.”
“They all miss sometimes, Nick,” said Hashknife soberly.
“But why would he try to bush you?” asked the sheriff. “You didn’t even
know him.”
Hashknife shook his head. “No, I didn’t, and I never heard of him, until
now. He was hired to kill me, Nick.”
“Hired? Good gosh! Who hired him, Hashknife?”
“I can’t tell yuh--’cause I’m not sure.”
* * * * *
The excitement was mostly over, as soon as the body was removed, but
there was still a lot of discussion going on. Trent’s name was
well-known down there. Hashknife and Sleepy went over to the Pasatiempo
Saloon, listening to the gossip. Harry Colton was at the bar, already
more than half-drunk. Hashknife shoved in beside him, and Colton
resented it. However, he looked at Hashknife, and decided to give him
room.
Hashknife was only at the bar a few moments when the sheriff came in.
Men were asking him questions about the affair at the hotel, when
Hashknife drew him aside, whispered a few words. The sheriff looked at
him in amazement, but finally nodded. About a minute later the sheriff
arrested Harry Colton, who tried to shove the law officer away, swearing
indignantly. The incident brought a lot of attention, but the sheriff
was firm.
“Harry, yuh better go peacefully,” he said.
“You’re crazy!” snarled the young man. “Why arrest me? What’s the
charge?”
“Murder,” said the sheriff coldly. “You killed Chiquita Morales.”
“That’s a lie!”
“It’s the truth, Harry. You’ve still got that turquoise ring. It’s in
yore pocket. Take it out--and deny it!”
The arrest had sobered Harry Colton. Swearing his innocence, he felt in
his pocket and took out the turquoise ring. He took one good look at it
and flung it at the back-bar. The next moment the big sheriff had
crashed Colton against the bar and deftly handcuffed him. Harry Colton
was not swearing nor protesting now, he seemed too stunned to even
notice the crowd, as the sheriff led him outside. The bartender
recovered the ring, and gave it to a man to give to the sheriff.
Word that Harry Colton had been arrested for the murder of Chiquita
Morales spread swiftly. The sheriff was in a quandary as to what to do
about Frenchy Arnett. Hashknife got Frenchy aside and explained to him
that arrest didn’t mean that Harry Colton was guilty. Frenchy laughed
shortly, but promised to keep his trigger-finger under control.
“I think yo’re wrong, Hashknife,” confided the sheriff.
“Maybe I am,” admitted Hashknife, “but it’ll stir things up.”
“It shore will, if a mob decides to lynch Colton.”
Sleepy showed up, having been on a mission, and reported quietly, “Sam
Hack went to tell Thomas Colton, but he’s back at the Pasatiempo. I
heard Colton tell him he’d be right up to the jail.”
“You stay here and keep yore eyes open, pardner,” ordered Hashknife, and
went swiftly up the street.
Hashknife wasn’t sure of anything. When he had dropped that turquoise
ring into Harry Colton’s pocket, he was acting on a vague sort of hunch;
a hunch that this was the time to force the issue. There was a light in
the living-room of the Colton home. Colton hadn’t been to the jail.
Hashknife came straight to the house, so it was evident that Thomas
Colton was taking his own sweet time in reacting to the arrest of his
son. Hashknife circled to the rear of the house, working along a low
fence, when he heard a door close quiet. A moment later someone came
toward the fence, climbed over it and headed south. The man was
evidently carrying something, which he lifted over the fence.
* * * * *
Hashknife trailed him as close as he dared. The man crossed the street,
far from any lights and walked swiftly down the road, which led south
from Tomahawk Flats. But he only went a short distance and stopped off
the road. A minute later he was coming back. Hashknife dropped flat, as
the man went past him, panting a little. He saw him turn into the main
street.
Hashknife saw the man was not carrying anything when he returned; so he
went on in the darkness, just off the road, searching as well as he
could in the darkness, and almost fell over a valise, which had been
left behind a small clump of brush, only a dozen feet off the road. The
heavy valise was locked, and Hashknife didn’t bother to try and open it.
He picked it up and went back to Colton’s house, where he left the
valise against the low fence.
There was a light in the house, but the blinds were down.
Hashknife tried the kitchen door and found it unlocked. Quietly he
opened the door, and listened, but there was not a sound. He closed the
door, moved ahead to the partly opened doorway, which opened into the
living-room, stepped aside against the wall and waited for something to
happen.
He had been there about ten minutes, when he faintly heard footsteps on
the plank walk, which led from the street. There was a sharp knock at
the front door, and then the door opened. He was unable to see who had
come, but heard more than one come in. A voice called:
“Colton!”
* * * * *
When there was no reply, he heard a man swear bitterly, damning the
Colton family back several generations.