Mavericks · OmniClassics

MAVERICKS By W. C. Tuttle Table of Contents I — THE CRIME II — MURDER OR SELF-DEFENSE? III — A STRANGE QUEST IV — THE HARDLUCK STRANGER V — BILL MCGILL FINDS TWO FRIENDS VI — HASHKNIFE GETS DOWN TO WORK VII — BILL FOLLOWS HIS NOSE VIII — HASHKNIFE AND SLEEPY HIRE OUT IX — GHOSTS X — MURDER XI — CALIENTE AND PIUTE THROW A PARTY XII — PINK MAKES A DISCOVERY XIII — THE BRAND VENTERS XIV — HASHKNIFE JOURNEYS TO SANTA DOLORES XV — BILL IS TAKEN FOR A RIDE XVI — PINK GOES CALLING XVII — HASHKNIFE AND SCOTTY CLASH XVIII — SMITH TURNS DETECTIVE XIX — THE END OF THE TRAIL CHAPTER I — THE CRIME It was a good many years ago, as men figure time. The place, an old, dilapidated shack near the rim of a brushy mesa in the Southwest, near the Painted Desert. It was nearing sundown, and already the intense heat of the day was being supplanted by a chill breeze, as three men rode down through the brush. One man humped far over the neck of his horse, clinging with both hands to the horn of the saddle, swaying drunkenly, while the other two men rode as close to him as possible. One of the men turned often in his saddle and looked back, as they talked softly. But the man who humped in his saddle did not talk. His face was chalky white, where it was not concealed by a growth of sandy whiskers, and there was a reddish stain down one side of his cheap cotton shirt. His eyes were glassy and staring straight ahead. “Is that your shack, Spike?” asked one of the men. “Where he said it was,” growled the other. “Damn that posse! Do you reckon we shook ’em loose, Steve?” “I hope so.” He made a quick grab at Spike’s shoulder in time to prevent the wounded man from falling from his horse. “He’s a goner,” grunted Steve. “Mebbe it’s just as well, Ed. Hell of a long ways to a doctor in this country.” Across the fork of the wounded man’s saddle was a canvas sack, the ends of which hung heavily on either side, stretching the canvas tightly. It was the loot from a stage robbery; the clean-up of a mining camp—two hundred pounds of raw gold molded into ingots. The horses stumbled along wearily, especially the gray horse, which carried the extra burden. The holdup had been successfully accomplished. The single guard tried to make a fight of it, but a bullet smashed his arm. Spike had fired that shot. Trailing the stage, with no knowledge of its treasure, was a sheriff and two deputies; and they arrived just after the gold had been transferred from the strong box to the back of a horse. Shielded by the stage and the four-horse team, the three robbers made their getaway in a hail of bullets, one of which had smashed through Spike’s body. A deputy’s horse went down, delaying the pursuit; but the saddle was quickly transferred to the back of one of the stage horses, and the posse swept on. It was a long chase. The sheriff and his men knew the country well, but luck favored the three men ahead, and they finally left the sheriff baffled. But they needed water. Steve and Ed were newcomers, and Spike had only been there a short time. It had been a chance acquaintance. Spike knew of the clean-up; a bottle of _mescal_ settled the deal. And now they were at Spike’s cabin, where a tiny spring would give them strength and a chance to map out their next move. Somewhere behind them were the sheriff and his two men. They wondered if he knew about the cabin. Spike was too sick to care. They did not know his other name, and he only knew them as Steve and Ed. Perhaps it were better that way. The men dismounted stiffly and helped Spike down. He was unable to stand alone; they kicked the door open and carried him in. It was dark in there, after the bright light outside. There were two bunks at the rear of the little shack, and as they placed him on one of them, they were greeted by a shrill wail. Both men sprang back and whirled toward the open door. There was nothing. Steve stepped quickly over to the other bunk. “My God!” he exploded harshly. “Kids! Babies! Why, this must be the wrong shack!” He stepped over to Spike and shook him roughly. “Spike! Wrong shack! There’s babies in here. Can’tcha hear me, Spike?” “Two of ’em,” whispered Ed. “Little jiggers.” “All right,” whispered Spike painfully. “They’re all right. Need milk. I—I forgot ’em. Don’t let the law get ’em. I’m a goner, boys. You take the kids. Take my share of the gold and the kids and give ’em to my sister in—in—I can’t remember. Get me some water. It’s only a mile to town from here. They know I live here. Don’t let ’em take the kids. My sister lives in Denver. Her name’s Mrs. Dan Lawton. The money will raise ’em. Don’t tell her where I—” Spike fainted away. “I reckon he’s dead,” said Steve slowly. “Only a mile to town, and they know he lives here. I reckon our best move is to hightail out of here as fast as we can, Ed.” “Shore. But what about them kids?” “Gawd, I dunno. Denver’s a long ways from here.” * * * * * The two men stood side by side, looking at each other in the dim light. Neither of them was over thirty years of age. One was tall, thin, with a serious pair of brown eyes; the other was of medium height, his hair already touched with gray at the temples, thin lipped, square-jawed. “Them kids don’t mean nothin’ to us,” said Ed, the short one. “Not a thing, but—” Steve pushed back his sombrero and wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead—“jist suppose they _don’t_ come here? Them kids ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” “That’s true—” slowly—“but what damn’ right has he to have kids, anyway?” “They need milk,” said Steve. “Lotsa cows, but few milkers. Dang it, I dunno. Denver, eh? Mrs. Dan Lawton. Can you remember that, Ed?” “Remember it—shore. But we can’t take them kids, Steve. It ain’t noways possible.” Steve went over and looked down at them. They were both whimpering. Possibly both of them needed baths; needed more care than Spike had ever been able to give them. “Got a right to live, I suppose,” grunted Steve, poking at one of the blanket wrapped bundles. “That’s the idea,” replied Ed. “Got a right to live. It just might be that nobody would come here, and the little devils would starve. But how in hell can me and you ever take care of ’em? They need milk. You can’t feed babies on jerky, you know.” “I know,” nodded Steve. “Mebbe we can rustle enough milk to keep ’em alive. It’s a funny deal all the way around. Dang it, they can’t arrest us for havin’ babies along. We’ll hit a town somewhere, and mebbe we can pay somebody to take care of ’em until they’re big enough to ship. We’ve got plenty money. If we slip out and leave ’em here—” “See if we can’t tie ’em up in blankets like the Injuns do. I’ll be danged if I pack one in my arms. Hey! Here’s somethin’!” It was two cans of condensed milk. “I’ll betcha they’ll eat tin cow. That’ll fix ’em up for supper. Which one do you claim, Steve?” “I’ll take the tow-headed one. Looks like a scrapper. C’mon.” “Is Spike dead?” “I reckon he is.” It was considerable of a job to wrap up those two babies, but they finally accomplished the task only to find that there was no way to fasten them to the saddles without danger of injury. It was their plan to lead Spike’s horse, and they were so intent on working out the problem of baby transportation that they did not see several men approaching. Suddenly Steve’s horse nickered softly. The two men saw these mounted men coming down the slope, not over two hundred yards away. The problem was immediately solved. Both men mounted swiftly, each with a baby in his arms, herded the gold carrying horse around the corner of the shack, whipped it into a gallop with a rope end and went crashing down toward an arroyo. The posse swung wide of the cabin and began shooting with rifles. A bullet struck in front of the loose horse, which whirled to the right, almost blocking Steve’s animal, and went crashing down an old cattle trail. There was no time to recover it. It was a case of save themselves, if possible, regardless of the fortune. Ed was in the lead, riding blindly. He struck an old trail down a cañon where a misstep would have sent them a hundred feet in a sheer drop. Death was behind them; so they were taking a long chance. Steve, riding with his right leg lifted to avoid the rocky wall, was almost unseated when the rear end of his mount went down. But after a kicking flurry the animal regained its feet, and its rider looked back to see that a five-foot section of the trail had slipped away, leaving the trail blocked behind them. They reached the bottom in safety. There they rested their fagged horses before striking the trail which would lead them out the far side of the cañon. Down there in the blue shadows, temporarily safe from the law, they looked back at the far rim of the cañon, wondering at the queer turn of fate. “Gawd!” said Steve softly, shifting the bundle in his arms. “It looks as though me and you had traded a couple hundred pounds of gold for a couple of milk eaters, Ed.” Ed sighed, nodding slowly, his lips compressed tightly. “These kids are a hell of a long ways from Denver. That was shore a close shave, pardner. Let’s get out of this cañon before it’s too dark. We’ll have to make a dry camp, I reckon. But it’s all right for the kids—I saved them two cans of milk.” “And after that,” said Steve dryly, “we’ll find us a cow.” “That’s right—a couple cows. How much does a kid eat, Steve? I ain’t never tended one. Have you?” “Not me. I dunno nothin’ about ’em, except that they squawl when they’re hungry. This’n must be starvin’, judgin’ by his yelp. Tradin’ gold for a couple kids. Well, I reckon we was lucky to get away alive. They’ll get Spike—what’s left of him.” CHAPTER II — MURDER OR SELF-DEFENSE? “Don’t lie, Comanche. They was due here a week ago, and they better be on this stage.” Pink Lowry, deputy sheriff of Willow Wells, pointed a finger at the body of the stage which had just arrived in front of the stage office, while Comanche Beadle, the attenuated old driver, craned his neck down toward where Pink was pointing, spat violently and straightened up with a visible effort. “There’s a couple packages in there,” he admitted. “I didn’t see your name, but there’s a package for Dudley D. Evans, and one for Alexander Washin’ton Lowry, which can’t noways be you.” “Them’s her,” said Pink, “and you keep your damn’ tongue off them two names of mine, Comanche.” “Oh, shore—” seriously. “Your folks named you after ginerals, didn’t they? How’d they ever miss Coxey? No, I can’t give you them packages; you’ve got to git ’em from the agent. There’s four dollars apiece charges.” “Well, dig ’em out, will you?” “I’ll do m’ best, but they’re on the bottom.” He wound the lines around the brake, climbed slowly down, took a fresh chew and began unlashing the boot. “Gittin’ new duds, eh?” he grunted. “Suppose you and Evans are goin’ to cut a figger at the SP ranch tonight. New clothes ’n’ everythin’. I jist wonder how much Miss Pelliser’s got to do with all this dudin’ up.” “You ain’t packed them new suits under all that stuff, have you?” wailed Pink. “Ain’tcha got no sense? My gosh, they’ll be a mess!” “You can’t hurt cloth, can you? You and Evans didn’t buy no glass suits, didja? There you are! No, that’s Evans’. Here’s yours. No, you don’t. Foller me in, cowboy, and pay your money. That’s how we make a livin’—me and Wells Fargo.” Pink followed him obediently, and finally paid the eight dollars and received both suits—the crushed packages which bore the name of an