Mavericks
“She didn’t remember what?”
“The Willow Valley Copper Company.”
“Yea-a-ah? Say, what are you talkin’ about?”
“Why, I wanted to ask you if you ever remembered a mining company by
that name.”
“Good gosh! I thought you wanted to marry my daughter!”
“No, I—well, you see, I—” floundered Bill.
“Uh-huh.”
Steve pushed back his sombrero, his eyes thoughtful.
“Willow Valley Copper, eh? What about it?”
They sat down together, while Bill explained why he was there and what
he wanted to find out. Steve humped on the steps, resting his chin on
his hands, while Bill explained about the letters and of his trials and
tribulations before he finally reached the SP ranch.
“There were so many of them companies,” said Steve. “That was a long,
long time ago, young man, and lots of them corporations didn’t last
long. In fact, none of ’em ever lasted more than a year. There wasn’t
any copper to amount to anythin’, and they died a natural death.”
“I suppose I am twenty years too late.”
“Just about. But what’s the difference? You’re a young man, and you’re
educated. This is the wrong country for you, anyway.”
“Wrong?”
“Well, your education wouldn’t do you much good here, unless you go into
a bank, or somethin’ like that. You belong in a city.”
“I suppose that’s true, but I haven’t any desire to return.”
Steve shrugged his shoulders indifferently and got to his feet.
“You’re your own boss, young man, but I think you’re wastin’ time in
tryin’ to run down shadows of twenty years ago.”
“Shadows are what they are, I suppose.”
“That’s all, Bill. I can’t help you. I doubt if there’s anybody in the
Valley who can help you. It has been so long since the old mining days,
and there’s none of the old minin’ men left. No, I think they’re
shadows.”
“Perhaps. Have you any objections to me staying here awhile? I shall
expect to pay my board and room rent, of course.”
“Well, I dunno. I’m not runnin’ a hotel, you know. Why don’tcha go down
to town and live at the hotel?”
“I’d rather not, if you can put up with me.”
Steve shook his head.
“I can’t do it, Bill. I couldn’t take money for your board and room.”
“Give me a job.”
“A job? What doin’?”
“What have you that I _could_ do?”
“Not a thing in the world. You can’t ride.”
“Might learn.”
“I’m not runnin’ a school for riders, and you’d be a long time learnin’.
Better go back to a city.”
“No, I don’t want to go back. I wonder if I might get a position in the
bank at Willow Wells?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed and he gnawed the corner of his lip thoughtfully.
A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, as he said—
“I’ll speak to Mr. Hart about it, Bill.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pelliser.”
Steve nodded and walked down to the corral, where he leaned idly against
the fence.
“It’s a funny old world,” he told himself. “Bill McGill. Two old fools
of fate. Mebbe I’m wrong, but McGill was the name, I’m sure. And I
wonder what Ed will say? Willow Valley Copper Company, your ghost is
still walkin’ the hills. And unless I’m mistaken the danged young fool
is stuck on Mary. The best thing for all concerned is to git him safely
out of this country, before he becomes a nuisance.”
CHAPTER X — MURDER
Nick Lee, the man who had impersonated the sheriff at High Grade, was an
old friend of Scotty McGowan; and Lee was around the Valley several days
before he happened to see Hashknife Hartley. It was quite a shock to his
nerves when he found that Hashknife and Sleepy were working at the
Pelliser ranch. Lee had never told Scotty what happened in High Grade,
but after seeing Hashknife he decided to tell him all about it.
He told him how Ed Reese and Jack Erb, the two cowboys, had conceived
the idea of taking the money away from the tenderfoot and of the
disastrous results when these two traveling cowboys had taken a hand in
the matter. He described how they had taken him out of town, made him
get off and break all existing records in getting out of sight.
“You should have seen Jack and Eddie when I got back. This tall waddy
got them into a fight and they was a mess. They got drunk that evenin’,
and I pulled out. I kinda had a hunch that I might git even with these
two jiggers, so I went to Cinnabar. You know old Matt Daley, who runs
the hotel there, don’tcha?”
“Well, them two punchers and the tenderfoot stayed there. Old Matt’s as
crooked as a snake in a cactus patch, and I find out that he’s pulled
the stolen horse game on ’em, ’cause he’s got some broncs he wants to
git rid of. Figures he can sell ’em three at a tall price. I keeps out
of sight, and old Matt sure sold ’em. Got a hundred and fifty apiece for
a twenty dollar animal. Matt tells me that they’ve pulled out, but I’m
not so sure.
“Anyway I waited until almost dark, and then I headed for here over that
old road from Cinnabar.”
“Well, they ain’t got nothin’ on you, except that you played a game,”
said Scotty.
“Yeah, that’s true. But here’s another queer one, Scotty. I ain’t more
than a mile or so from Cinnabar, when I runs into that tenderfoot ag’in.
He don’t rec’nize me in the dark, and I figure he thinks I’m one of them
other two. Anyway, I stick him up for what he’s got and took his bronc.”
“Oh! Did he know who you was, Lee?”
“No. But he’s out at the Pelliser ranch, and I’m here. It wouldn’t
sprain anybody’s brain to figure who got his money and bronc.”
“Aw, forget it. They can’t prove nothin’. But who in hell are these two
strange punchers?”
“Search me. But I’ll tell you one thing, they’re forked and salty. Don’t
forget that, Scotty. They shore tell you where to head in.”
“Well, they ain’t after you, so forget it.”
In the meantime Bill McGill was loath to leave the Pelliser ranch. He
had no place to go.
“Kinda helpless,” said Hashknife to Steve Pelliser, a day or so after
Bill had unburdened himself to Steve.
“Yeah —— helpless,” agreed Steve. “Wanted me to board and room him, but
I can’t do that. He ain’t no earthly good around here. Don’t even know
which side of a horse to get on to. I told Mary I was goin’ to ship him
away from here.”
Steve paused reflectively.
“I caught him recitin’ poetry to her yesterday.”
“Did he recite it well?” Hashknife smiled.
“That part of it didn’t interest me a damn’ bit.”
“She’s a pretty girl, and he’s a good lookin’ youngster.”
“And that,” said Steve slowly, “is jist why Bill McGill has got to git
away from here.”
Hashknife grinned and went away. He did not appreciate Steve’s viewpoint
in the matter at all. Hashknife had heard all about the killing of Jim
McGowan and had even been shown the hole in the corral post where
McGowan’s bullet had bored into the wood. Thursday Adams’ idea was that
the two men had fought over Mary Pelliser.
“O’ course,” warned Thursday, “that’s jist my idea—but it’s reasonable.
Pink’s story about all that shootin’ in the dark is bunk. McGowan wanted
to marry this girl, I tell you, and when he seen Pink Lowry beatin’ his
time, he runs into Pink down there by the stable and they had words. It
was jist a case of McGowan missin’, Pink hittin’. Oh, it was
self-defense, but why make a mystery over it?”
“Lowry seems like a nice feller.”
“Nicest you ever seen. He was past here yesterday and he talked to me.
Never went near the house, ’cause Bill was there. He asked me about
Bill, and I told him he better shine up his shirt or dance at somebody
else’s weddin’. He acted like I’d stepped on his corns. He don’t come
out to see her. Can’t expect her to go and see him, can he?”
“Did she like Lowry?” asked Hashknife, rather amused at Thursday.
“I reckon she did—better than she did McGowan.”
Hashknife and Sleepy were going to town that evening, and Bill asked to
go along. He had never been at Willow Wells and he needed some new
clothes. His war-bag was somewhere along the old road out of Cinnabar.
He had been wearing a pair of Steve’s socks, which he wished to replace.
Thursday Adams went along with them, and they left Thursday, with Bill,
at the store. Hashknife and Sleepy met Dud Evans, and the three of them
went to the War Paint, where they found Scotty McGowan and Buck Haskell.
Scotty had been drinking and was in a belligerent mood, while Buck
greatly desired to sing. Scotty gazed moodily upon Hashknife and Sleepy,
decided that they might resent any familiarity on his part, and let them
alone. The three men were at the bar when Nick Lee came in with Sam
Hall, an undersized cowboy from the McGowan ranch. They stopped to watch
a poker game, and when Nick Lee glanced around, he saw Hashknife looking
at him. Lee tried to appear nonchalant, but he swallowed heavily and
looked away.
“Outside your own county, ain’tcha, Sheriff?” said Hashknife.
Lee affected extreme deafness.
“Feller talkin’ to you, Lee,” said Sam Hall.
“Oh!” grunted Lee.
“Called you sheriff.”
“Huh?”
Lee looked at Hashknife, who was grinning. Lee grinned, too, because it
looked like an easy way out.
“Didja resign?” asked Hashknife.
“He asked you if you resigned,” said Sam, as if acting as interpreter.
Hashknife turned to Dud Evans.
“That’s a man you ought to know. He’s the sheriff at High Grade. You
sheriffs ought to know each other.”
“That’s right,” grinned Evans. “What didja say the name was?”
Lee was cornered, looking for a way out. Scotty was close enough to hear
what was being said. He seemed to enjoy it.
“Tell’m to go to hell, Lee,” he advised.
“You better keep your horns out of this, Scotty,” advised Dud.
* * * * *
Sleepy had moved slowly around until he was within reach of Scotty, who
realized he was getting in bad. He shrugged his shoulders and turned
around. For several moments he seemed undecided what to do, but finally
headed for the front door; and with him went Nick Lee, thankful to get
away. Sam Hall laughed loudly, as if with complete enjoyment. “I’ll buy
a drink,” he offered. “Them two jiggers are supposed to be plumb
saline—_mucho salinas_, as they say. I never did see that Lee feller
until he came here; but Scotty says he is _mucho malo hombre_. What’ll
you have, gents?”
“Who is he, anyway?” asked the sheriff as they accepted the drink.
“Jist a waddy from over in the Cinnabar country; old friend of Scotty
McGowan. Scotty sent for him, I reckon. Here’s how.”
Hall paid for the drink and walked out. Hashknife and Sleepy went over
to the pool table, racked up the balls and began playing, while Dud
perched on the back of a chair and offered advice on the shots. They
were arguing when Thursday Adams came in, hat in hand, a wide grin on
his face.
“You shore missed a sight!” he blurted. “Golly, it was good! Me and Bill
are over there in the store where you left us, when in comes Scotty
McGowan and another jigger—a stranger to me. You know, they don’t light
up that store very good, and this stranger almost ran into Bill. I don’t
know yet what it’s all about.
“Them two met right there beside the counter, and they looks at each
other for long enough to count ten. This here stranger says, ‘Well, if
here ain’t little Red Ridin’ Hood.’ Jist like that. And Bill draws back
his right fist, bats this stranger plumb in the nose and knocks him half
the length of the store. And then Bill walks right over him and goes out
through the doorway.
“Well, none of us gets much explanation. Scotty swears he don’t know
what it’s all about, and this stranger is losin’ so much red ink that he
ain’t explainin’ anythin’. I can’t find Bill—and there you are.”
Hashknife placed his cue on the table top and sat down in a chair to
laugh.
“Bill,” said Sleepy chokingly, “is gettin’ civilized.”
They went out and tried to find the boy. His horse was still tied to the
hitch-rack, but Bill was not in evidence.