Mavericks
Scotty listened attentively.
“Well, that shore don’t show any reason why he should shoot Hart,”
admitted Scotty, after Hashknife had finished.
“Did Hart ever have any trouble with anybody around here?” asked
Hashknife. “Ever put anybody out of business through the bank?”
“I don’t believe he did. Never heard of anythin’ like that. I’m glad you
told me what you did, Hartley. Lotsa folks don’t _sabe_ anythin’ about
this kid, and they might try takin’ him out of jail some night.”
“That would shore be a pity.”
“Yeah, it would. What kind of a chance do you think Hart stands?”
“The doctor won’t even make a statement.”
“Uh-huh. If he recovers, mebbe he can tell who shot him.”
“I hope so, but I doubt it. My opinion is that Hart was shot while his
head was turned, and that he never seen the man who shot him. The kid
told me that Hart was lookin’ toward the kitchen when the shot was
fired.”
“There was only the kid and Hart in the room.”
“But the window was open.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, it shore is a mix-up. Thanks for tellin’ me about it.”
“You’re welcome, McGowan.”
* * * * *
Mary and her father came to town early that morning, and Pink let them
in to talk with Bill. Pink was sour about Mary’s coming down to the jail
but secretly glad that Bill McGill was away from the Pelliser ranch.
After the interview Mary met Pink in the office.
“You haven’t been out to see us for a long time,” she said.
“I was past there,” admitted Pink, “but you had company.”
“Why, Pink, we haven’t had any company for ages.”
“Oh!”
“Why, you didn’t stay away on account of Bill McGill, did you?”
“Well—” Pink rubbed an ear violently—“well, he—he’s company.”
“No such a thing—he was a patient.”
“Oh, that’s how it was.”
“He wouldn’t have bitten you.”
“No-o-o,” admitted Pink, “but I don’t like to horn in. Say, I’ve got a
dinger of a new mouth harp. Sent away for it.”
“Bring it out with you.”
“Yeah, I shore will.”
“You haven’t been out since the party, you know.”
“I know.” Pink grinned slowly, bashfully. “My clothes wasn’t—”
“Forget the clothes.”
“Well, I was to blame for bustin’ up that party, Mary. I’ve tried to
puzzle out why Jim McGowan ever took that shot at me. I didn’t like Jim,
but I’m shore sorry it had to be thataway. It wasn’t like him. I always
thought he was too practical to shoot at a man in the dark.”
“Didn’t he say anything before he shot?”
“I swear I don’t know. The wind was blowin’ toward him from me, and the
music was kinda loud, you know. I did hear the stable door slam just a
few moments before the shot was fired. I tell you the truth, I was so
sore about what McGowan said to me in the house, that I wouldn’t have
heard anythin’.”
Mary nodded slowly.
“I heard what was said.”
“It wasn’t bad enough to start a battle over.”
“I know. Oh, I’m sorry about what I did, Pink. McGowan asked me to dance
with him, and I told him I was engaged when I wasn’t. That was why I
grabbed you and made you dance that first quadrille with me. McGowan
knew I lied.”
“Well,” Pink said slowly, “it’s all over now. What do you think of them
new cowboys you’ve got out there?”
“I don’t know so much about them, but Dad likes them fine. Hashknife
says such serious things, and Sleepy laughs at everything and
everybody.”
“What do you think of Bill McGill’s story?”
“I think he is telling the truth, don’t you?”
“Well—” Pink grinned—“I believe it more now than I did awhile ago.”
“What caused the change in your beliefs?”
“Findin’ out that he wasn’t company at your house.”
Mary laughed and went on up the street, while Pink did a shuffle on the
office floor. He wanted to go in and hug Bill McGill, but was afraid
Bill might not take kindly to such a procedure.
The following day Edward Hart regained consciousness. The sheriff
happened to be there at the time. Hart’s memory seemed all right, and he
wanted to talk; so the doctor merely warned him against it.
“Did you see the man who shot you?” asked the sheriff, eager to find out
what Hart knew.
“The stranger,” he whispered, “was the only person in the room. I can’t
swear he shot me. My gun was there on the table.”
“You don’t know where the shot came from?”
Hart shook his head weakly.
“It was pretty close.”
The doctor forbade any further questioning, and the sheriff went back to
the office to talk with Bill about what the banker had said.
“But I didn’t,” protested Bill. “I’ve told the truth, Sheriff.”
Bill McGill’s reasons for being in Willow Valley had been broadcast by
word of mouth, but no one seemed interested; people wanted to know his
reasons for shooting Edward Hart.
And that night the banker died. Pink rode out early the next morning,
bearing the news to Steve Pelliser and the rest of the SP outfit.
“He was conscious for awhile yesterday evenin’,” explained Pink. “He
seemed to think that Bill shot him. He said he wasn’t sure.”
It was quite a blow to Steve, although he said nothing. Mary went to
town with her father, but the rest of the boys went ahead with their
work. That afternoon after they returned Steve told Hashknife that the
doctor had taken the bullet from Hart’s body, that it was a .45.
“Same as the gun Bill had,” said Hashknife.
“The kid is up against a hard deal,” declared Steve. “They’ll cinch him
as sure as fate. Ed didn’t have an enemy in this Valley. I hate to say
it, but I’m afraid Bill did the job. No, I’m not bitter, Hartley. Ed was
my best friend, but I’m not bitter against the kid. Why he did it, God
knows. I’d believe him innocent as quick as a flash, if there was a
chance in the world.”
“They’ll hold him for murder, you think?”
“Sure as fate. Judge Lindsay won’t be here until tomorrow, so they’ll
have to hold his preliminary when he comes.”
“I still don’t believe the kid killed him, Steve.”
“I wish you were right.”
“Do you?” Hashknife looked at him quizzically.
“I certainly do.”
“All right, pardner. You fire me off this job I’ve got, and I’ll see if
I can’t scare up a murderer.”
Steve stared at him for several moments.
“I don’t _sabe_ your idea.”
“Well, I can’t do much if I keep workin’ every day. You fire me.”
“You mean to work on this case? Are you a detective, Hartley?”
“No-o-o, I’m not—not a reg’lar one.”
“What do you know?”
“Nothin’—yet.”
“Well, I won’t fire you. But if you think there’s a chance to save that
kid, I’ll pay your salary and let you do as you please.”
“Why are you so anxious to save the kid?”
Steve hunched back against the corral fence, his eyes somber as he
looked off across the hills.
“I’d hate to see an innocent man hanged,” he said slowly. “The kid is
nothin’ to me. Go ahead and work on the case, Hartley. I’ll pay the
bill.”
“You’re a square shooter.”
“Mm-m-m. I’ve been hit hard today and I feel kinda limp. You see, me and
Hart have been friends for years, and I’ll miss him a lot.”
“You don’t remember anythin’ about that Willow Valley Copper Company, do
you, Steve?”
“What the kid was searchin’ for? No. I never mixed up with the minin’
game to any extent.”
“Did Hart?”
Hashknife wondered why Steve gave him such a searching look.
“I guess not.” Steve turned away. “He never said anythin’ about it.”
“Was Hart in the cattle business?”
“Punched cows for awhile years ago. He married money. Oh, not a barrel
of it, but enough to set up the bank at Willow Wells. Hart was educated
in the East, but he came West, dropped his education and learned to ride
the range. A lot of men have done that. The bank has made money.”
“You say Hart had no enemies?”
“Not one—that I know anything about.”
“Uh-huh. Do you know if he held any mortgages against ranches in the
Valley? Any notes or anythin’ that would cause a man to wish for his
death?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he finally shook his head.
“I don’t know of any.”
“Somebody had a reason to kill him, you know. Only crazy men kill
without reason, and you ain’t got no crazy men around here. At least—”
Hashknife smiled—“not crazy enough to do a thing like that.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Well, it looks like a blank wall,” admitted Hashknife, “but I’ll see if
there ain’t a crack in the wall somewhere. Don’t tell anybody I’m doin’
anythin’, ’cause I don’t want a bullet in the back.”
“You seem convinced that the kid didn’t do it.”
“I’m hopin’ he didn’t; there’s nothin’ sure.”
“I wish you luck.”
* * * * *
Hashknife did not tell Sleepy of his new arrangement with Pelliser. He
knew Sleepy would go ahead with his own job, asking no questions. Sleepy
had perfect faith in Hashknife. After supper that evening Hashknife rode
to Willow Wells. He found Evans and Lowry at the sheriff’s office, and
the three of them went in for a short talk with Bill, whose preliminary
hearing was set for two o’clock the following afternoon.
Bill was a bit downhearted, but felt that the judge would release him as
soon as he heard his story. The boys cheered him up as much as they
could. They left Pink at the office and went over to the War Paint. The
place was almost deserted, but they managed to get Miller, the
blacksmith, and Frank Davis, book-keeper in the bank, to play sluff with
them, while the bartender sat on the back of a chair, watching the game.
They played for a couple of hours, then Davis went home. He was in
charge of the bank until the directors decided on what to do. Hashknife
was tired of cards, and when the bartender took Davis’ place and
suggested a small poker game, Hashknife drew out, lighted a cigarette
and walked out of the place.
He crossed the street and went into a store, where he made a few
purchases. Several men were there, and the conversation was all about
the murder of Edward Hart. Hashknife leaned on a counter and listened to
the different opinions regarding Bill McGill.
No one seemed to have any idea why Bill should shoot Hart, but they were
of the general opinion that Willow Wells would have a murder trial.
“Judge Lindsay will shore soak him plenty,” decided one of the men.
“He’s death on murderers.”
Hashknife smiled to himself. Death on murderers!
“And I’d like to see you pick a jury in this county that wouldn’t hang
that feller.”
“You couldn’t do it.”
Hashknife wandered back to the door. He could understand them. They were
of the types of human beings who believe any man in jail is guilty;
their reasoning is that he would not be in jail if he was not guilty.
Hashknife went outside and stood on the edge of the sidewalk. It was
rather dark, and the street was lighted only by two or three windows.
There seemed to be a lot of horses around the sheriff’s office; men and
horses. Hashknife’s heart gave a quick jump. He knew what it meant.
Swiftly he ran across the street to the War Paint, where he yelled at
the sheriff—
“They’re takin’ Bill out of the jail, Evans!”
The sheriff kicked back his chair and came running, followed by all the
others. The men were mounting now—were riding down the street in a
compact mass. The sheriff ran from the saloon to the office, where the
door stood wide open. The rear half of the office was the jail.
Pink Lowry was stretched on a cot, blood dripping from a cut on the side
of his head. The sheriff ran quickly down to Bill’s cell, where the door
sagged open. The cell was empty.
The sheriff ran back and found Hashknife examining Pink’s head.
“They swatted him over the head,” said Hashknife. “Get me some water.”
“They’ve got Bill!” exclaimed the sheriff. “My God, what next? They’ll
lynch him before we can stop ’em, Hashknife.”
Hashknife got up quickly and turned to the bartender.
“Get some water and bathe that cut. Miller, you run for the doctor and