Mavericks
“Do you reckon he got scared and pulled out on foot?” asked Evans.
“I can’t believe that,” replied Hashknife. “I don’t reckon Bill ever hit
a man before, and it might react kinda funny on him. He might think that
this feller would kill him on sight, and he’ll keep out of his way.
We’ll have to wait until he gits over his scare.”
“Is he packin’ a gun?”
“Not in sight.”
“Well, I dunno,” said Thursday. “He asked me if I knowed where Mr. Hart,
the banker, lived, and I told him. He didn’t say why he wanted to know.”
“Maybe he went out to Hart’s house,” suggested the sheriff.
“Well, we’ll wait and see if he shows up,” said Hashknife.
They went to the store, but Scotty and Nick Lee had left there. The
storekeeper said that the stranger was angry about the blow.
“I think his nose was busted. Anyway, it looked as though it was. I’ve
got the bundle of stuff the tenderfoot bought. I reckon he forgot it.”
“I’ll give it to him,” said Sleepy, taking the package.
They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the store, when a man
came running across the street. It was the blacksmith.
“Is the sheriff there?” he panted. “Oh, hello, Evans! Say, you better
get up to the Hart house right quick—I’ll get the doctor.”
And without any further information, he ran down the street.
“That’s funny,” said Evans. “Hart home, eh? C’mon.”
Edward Hart lived in a neat frame house, located about three city blocks
from the main street. The nearest house was the one occupied by Jeff
Miller, the blacksmith, about a hundred feet away.
Not knowing what had happened, the four men ran all the way to the Hart
home, where they found Mrs. Miller at the gate. The front door was open,
the light shining out on the little vine-covered porch.
“Somebody shot Mr. Hart,” she said hoarsely. “Mrs. Hart’s in there with
him. Did Jeff go for the doctor?”
“Yes,” said Evans shortly. “Who shot Hart?”
“Nobody knows. Mrs. Hart was over at our house, when we heard a shot.
Jimmy, that’s my oldest boy, says there were two shots, but I only heard
one. We came out on our porch, but there wasn’t anythin’ wrong as far as
we could see. But Mrs. Hart said she’d go on home. Pretty soon I heard
her scream for help, and me and Jeff came runnin’ over.”
The sheriff and Hashknife went into the house, while Sleepy and Thursday
sat down on the porch. After a few moments Hashknife came back to the
door.
“Hit pretty hard,” he said.
The doctor was coming, and they could hear the excited voice of the
blacksmith as he tried to explain. There was a soft groan from the
shrubbery beside the porch, and Sleepy got quickly to his feet. The
bushes quivered considerably. Hashknife stepped to the edge of the porch
as a man raised up to a sitting position.
It was Bill McGill, a trickle of blood over his left temple, a vacant
expression in his eyes. Then he got to his feet. Clenched in his right
hand was a heavy Colt.
“For God’s sake, Bill!” cried Sleepy.
Evans stepped out on the porch, staring at Bill, as Hashknife jumped
down and removed the gun from the boy’s hand. The doctor came hurrying
down the little sandy walk, brushed past them without a word and entered
the house. Hashknife seated Bill on the steps and wiped the blood off
his face.
“What happened, Bill?” he asked.
“What was he doin’ with that gun?” queried the sheriff, taking it from
Hashknife and examining it. “One chamber empty,” he said. “I guess this
is the gun. Smells as though it had just been fired.”
Bill was beginning to recover. He wiped his face, stared at the
handkerchief and put it into his pocket.
“What happened?” asked Hashknife.
Bill looked at him dazedly.
“I hurt my head, I guess.”
The sheriff went back into the house, where the doctor was working over
his patient. Hashknife went in and looked around. They had the wounded
man on a couch. Mrs. Hart was sitting in a rocking chair, her face in
her hands. The sheriff rested one hand against the wall, watching the
doctor.
“Badly hurt, Doc?” he asked.
“Bad enough. Who shot him?”
“We ain’t got that far—yet.”
Hashknife examined the room. One window, a front one, was wide open, the
shade up, a pair of lace curtains playing back and forth in the breeze.
The sheriff tried to question Mrs. Hart, but she knew nothing. She had
found her husband on the floor. There had been no one with him when she
went over to see Mrs. Miller.
Hashknife and the sheriff went back to the porch. Bill was still hazy
about what had happened. He did not seem able to tell why he should be
lying out there in the bushes with a six-shooter in his hand.
“I hate to do it,” said the sheriff, “but I’m afraid I’ve got to lock
this boy up—until he knows somethin’.
Hashknife nodded slowly.
“It looks thataway, Evans. Queer deal all the way around. He’s been hit
on the head.”
“Been hit twice,” corrected Sleepy. “I examined him.”
“Remember bein’ hit, Bill?” asked Thursday.
“I know I have a fearful headache.”
Evans drew Hashknife aside.
“I think I better lock him up. Folks around here are mighty fond of
Hart, and you never can tell, you know.”
“That’s true. I’ll go with you.”
Bill was a little wobbly on his legs and a trifle vague about things,
but went willingly. They locked him in a cell after bandaging his head,
which had swollen badly on one side, and helped him to bed. The doctor
had put Hart to bed by the time they got back to the house.
“We’ve got to wait and see what happens,” he told them. “It’s a bad
hurt, boys.”
“Got a fightin’ chance?” asked the sheriff.
“Just about. The bullet is still in there. Struck a rib, I think. I’ll
try and take it out tomorrow, when I can get enough light to work by.
I’ll be here all night.”
The three cowboys rode back to the Pelliser ranch. It was past midnight,
so they did not awaken any one to tell them.
“I suppose you’re satisfied, Hashknife,” said Sleepy, as he sat on the
edge of his bunk, drawing off his boots.
“Satisfied over what?”
“Somethin’ to work on.”
“Oh!”
“I was just wonderin’ if that feller that Bill hit had anythin’ to do
with it.”
“Hart didn’t hit him.”
“I know that. But mebbe somebody shot at Bill and hit Hart.”
“Doin’ a little thinkin’ yourself, ain’tcha?” Hashknife said, smiling.
“A little. I kinda like Bill McGill.”
“Yea-a-a-ah. Bill’s all right—the danged fool.”
“But who hit him on the head twice?”
“Keep thinkin’—you might get it. That’s how I got my start.”
* * * * *
The shooting of Edward Hart rather upset Willow Valley. He was
universally liked and respected; so much so, in fact, that men came a
long way to get the details and find out what was being done to punish
the man who shot him. There was little change in his condition. The
doctor forbade any one’s going in to see him; accordingly the cattlemen
congregated, drank too much liquor and wanted to know more about the
tenderfoot who was in jail.
Bill McGill was willing to talk and did talk, but the prosecutor did not
believe him. It was not a consistent story. Bill told it to Hashknife
and Sleepy.
“After I had trouble with that man in the store, I decided to go and see
Mr. Hart at his home. Thursday told me where he lived. I found Mr. Hart
at home, and he asked me to come in. I told him what I wanted, and he
said there was no opening at the present time.
“We sat down to talk a few minutes, and he said he wanted a drink. I
noticed this big revolver on the table, near where I was sitting. Mr.
Hart left the door open when he went to the kitchen, and I was looking
at him as he came back in. I remember that he turned his head and looked
back toward the kitchen, and just at that moment I heard the report of a
gun.
“It was like a clap of thunder and frightened me for—well, anyway, it
was considerable of a shock. I saw Mr. Hart falling forward. I don’t
remember taking that gun, but I suppose I did. I remember running to the
front door, throwing it open, and my toe caught on a rug. I was falling
when something struck me on the head. I dimly remember hearing another
shot, and then—then I don’t know what happened.”
Bill told his story haltingly, as if afraid of a misstatement, and he
kept his eyes on the floor as he talked.
“I guess I was still dazed when I was put in jail.”
“Remember firin’ a shot from that gun?” asked Hashknife.
“I do not,” Bill answered crisply. “In fact, I have never shot a gun in
my life.”
“I believe you,” said Hashknife, “but the rest of ’em don’t, Bill.”
“My heavens! They don’t think I killed Mr. Hart?”
“I’m afraid they do. You see, they don’t know you like we do.”
“Does Mr. Pelliser and—Mary?”
“They didn’t say. It was quite a shock to Pelliser, you know. Bill, I’m
shore afraid they’ll keep you here quite awhile.”
“But I am innocent of any wrong, Hashknife.”
“I know. There’s no earthly reason for you to kill him. You didn’t even
meet him until last night. But a jury of these Willow Valley cowmen
would hang you higher than a kite, evidence or no evidence. Hart was
mighty well liked around here. The thing to do is not to prove your
innocence, but to prove somebody else guilty.”
“Could that be done?”
“That question shows lack of practise in thinkin’, Bill.”
They left Bill and went over to the War Paint, which was crowded. Nick
Lee was there, back to the bar, while the rest of the Diamond R outfit
were scattered around the room. The man who called himself Smith, whose
injuries were not entirely healed, was at the bar with Lee.
Lee was talking rather loudly, with but few listeners.
“Well, they caught him in the act, didn’t they? What the hell good is
the law if that’s all they do? Found him out there with a gun in his
hand, and one shot fired. They’ll use up a lot of taxpayer’s money and
then turn him loose. The law is pretty damn’ loose, I’d say.”
“And lenient,” said Hashknife.
Lee twisted his head quickly, his jaw sagging a little.
“Otherwise some folks I know would be breakin’ rocks,” added Hashknife.
Some of the men laughed. Even if they did agree with Lee, they did not
approve of his soap-box actions.
Lee shrugged his shoulders and tried to appear indifferent.
“Are you through talkin’?” asked Hashknife.
Lee looked at him defiantly for a few moments, but shifted his gaze. He
did not like the level stare of those gray eyes.
“Well, I’ve said what I wanted to,” he growled.
“I haven’t. You stand there and kick about the law being slow to hang a
man whose sole guilt is in having been on the spot of crime. The
tenderfoot kid never killed anybody. He hasn’t a crooked thought in his
danged head. And you kick because they don’t hang him quick. Your name’s
Lee, ain’t it? That’s what them two horsethieves called you. Want me to
tell this crowd what kind of a hairpin you are, Lee? No? Then keep your
mouth shut about the laxity of the law.”
Lee turned slowly around and motioned for the bartender to serve them.
The scar faced man studied Hashknife intently, but said nothing.
“How are you comin’ along, Smith?” asked Hashknife pleasantly.
“All right, thank you.”
“That’s fine.”
As they passed toward the rear of the room, Scotty McGowan accosted
Hashknife.
“I’d like to talk with you a minute. My name’s McGowan, Hartley.”
“I knew you by sight, McGowan.”
“Good. You know that Hart was a friend of mine, and I kinda want to git
your opinion of this tenderfoot they’ve got jailed for the shootin’.
What you jist told Lee kinda struck me as good sense. You don’t believe
the kid shot him, eh?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“I don’t. Why would he?”
“That’s what I’m drivin’ at. Who is this kid they call McGill? Where did
he come from and what’s he doin’ here?”
Hashknife explained as much as he knew of Bill’s personal affairs, and