Mavericks
bring him here. Evans, have you got a couple rifles? Oh, yeah.”
Hashknife strode across the room and took down a Winchester, around
which was wound a belt full of ammunition.
“Take a rifle and get your horse. Mine’s at the hitch-rack. We may not
be able to do anythin’ for the kid, but we’ll try. Where’s the nearest
big tree south of here?”
But the sheriff did not wait to figure out details; he was on the way to
his stable. Hashknife ran up the street and mounted his horse. Evans did
not take time to bridle his mount, but rode with a hackamore. He met
Hashknife in front of the office, and they raced their horses down the
street and over the road which led southward to Newton.
There were trees along the road, but no sign of the lynchers; so the two
men pounded along to the Diamond R ranch, which was in darkness. They
circled the ranch-house close enough to see that no horses were
concealed behind the buildings and then came back to the road. Both
horses were heaving from the long run.
“They’ve got away,” said the sheriff dismally. “Started south and turned
north, I’ll betcha. Threw us off the trail. Well, it’s too late to help
him now.”
Hashknife was obliged to agree. The lynchers would not delay matters.
“I only hope Pink was able to identify some of ’em,” said the sheriff,
as they headed back toward town.
“What satisfaction in that?” asked Hashknife wearily. “Kick up an awful
mess here in the Valley. There were at least a dozen men in that gang.”
“Oh, I suppose. Men are awful fools sometimes, Hashknife.”
“Men,” said Hashknife slowly, “are awful fools most of the
time—especially when they’re in a bunch. The sheep instinct, I reckon.”
They came back to the office and dismounted. The blacksmith and the
doctor were with Pink, who was sitting on the bunk, his head bandaged,
smoking a cigarette. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked miserable.
“Didja find ’em?” asked Miller anxiously.
“They slipped us,” replied the sheriff. “We went as far as the Diamond
R, but didn’t find a soul. What do you know, Pink?”
“I know I got hit,” Pink said sourly.
“Didja see any of that gang?”
“I didn’t see nothin’ but stars. Doc took two stitches in my scalp.”
Pink grinned painfully over his cigarette. “I was settin’ in here
readin’ when I heard somebody outside. It wasn’t exactly a knock—it was
more like somebody brushed against the door. I got right up and opened
it, stuck my head out—and somebody dropped a match in the barrel of
skyrockets.”
“Didn’t you even see that bunch of horses?”
“Nope.”
“Somebody petted him on the head with a rifle barrel,” said the
blacksmith.
The sheriff returned the two rifles to the wall and slumped into a
chair.
“I’ll be going back,” said the doctor. “Dress that head again tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Pink, as the doctor walked out.
“They unlocked the cell with your key,” said the sheriff.
“Took it out of my pocket.”
“It was still in the lock.”
“Do you suppose they hung Bill?”
Evans looked at his deputy pityingly.
“I s’pose they did,” said Pink sadly.
“And you don’t need to look at me that-away, Dud. I’ve been through
enough tonight.”
“It shore didn’t reach your brains.”
“If I had any brains to begin with, I wouldn’t be a deputy sheriff.”
“There’s no use quarrelin’,” said Hashknife. “It’s all over by this
time. We’ll just have to wait until somebody locates the scene, and then
cut Bill off the limb. I reckon I’ll go home.”
“And I’m goin’ to bed,” decided Pink. “I’ve been through somethin’.”
“Yeah, and you’ll go through more, if you don’t stop wailin’,” said the
sheriff.
“Anybody’d think you was hurt.”
“Look at my head!”
“I’ve been lookin’ at it for years—wonderin’ at the handiwork of Nature.
She shore plays jokes on the human race.”
“Yea-a-ah? I’ll match my brains against yours any old time, Mr. Evans.”
“You would, eh? Huh! And if the winner had some calf liver, he could
scramble the whole works and not have enough for a hummin’ bird’s
breakfast.”
They were still glaring belligerently at each other when Hashknife
softly closed the door and went out to his horse. They were not going to
fight. Their nerves were overwrought, and this was merely an outlet for
their feelings.
* * * * *
Hashknife mounted his horse and rode back to the ranch. He had always
detested mob law, and now he was more against it than ever. They had not
given the boy a chance, and Hashknife believed him innocent. He hated to
bear the news to Mary and her father, hated even to think about it
himself. No one would be punished for the deed. The cattlemen were
always a clannish crew and the sheriff could do nothing.
He went in at the big gate and started for the stable, but Mary called
to him from the front porch and he rode up to her.
“You’re up pretty late, ain’t you?” he asked, as he dismounted.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “Dad went to town to sit up with the
body. Mrs. Hart sent word that she’d like to have him. What is new in
town?”
Hashknife sat down on the porch, while the gray horse nuzzled at him in
the dark.
“Mighty bad news, Mary. The lynch lawyers took Bill out of the jail
tonight.”
“Lynch lawyers?”
“Men who take the law in their own hands.”
“You mean—oh, Hashknife, they didn’t!”
“I reckon they did. Knocked Pink Lowry cold. We tried to find ’em, but
they faded out with him. Gee, it’s a tough way to cash in your last
chip.”
“But—but—”
Words failed her. She was crying now.
“I feel bad about it myself,” Hashknife said slowly. “I liked the danged
fool, and I don’t believe he shot Hart. But what’s the use—now? Even if
we knew who _was_ guilty, it wouldn’t bring Bill back.”
“Oh, who would have done such a thing? Isn’t there a punishment for a
deed like that?”
“Yes’m—it’s against the law. Lots o’ things against the law, you know.”
“It’s just the same as murder.”
“The law misses badly in some cases, Mary. I’ve known cases where a man
was as guilty as hell, and yet the law let him loose. And then it’s time
for lynch lawyers—not before the suspect has even been heard. Poor Bill
never had a chance. Oh, it’s murder all right.”
“What will Dad say?”
“He’s prob’ly heard about it by this time.”
“Are you sure they’d hang him?”
“Sure? Mary, they knocked out Pink Lowry to get him. What else would
they want him for?”
“I guess there’s no hope.”
They sat there together, thinking it over. Far away a cow bawled
dismally, a cricket chirped beside the porch. The rim of the moon was
just showing over the hills, and a lonesome coyote protested.
Someone was coming through the big gate. It was a man on foot, and he
came slowly toward the porch. The light was behind him and his size was
exaggerated, his shadow almost reaching the house from the gate.
“Who’s this?” murmured Hashknife.
The man came on until he was not over twenty feet away, where he
stopped. Hashknife cleared his throat softly.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” said the man.
“My God!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Bill McGill!”
“Oh, it’s Hashknife. I wondered where you were.”
Mary did not speak. The shock was almost too much for her nerves. Bill
came over to the porch.
“I believe I have another blister,” he said. “Hello, Mary. I didn’t
expect to find you up at this hour.”
“They—they didn’t hang you?” she whispered.
“I don’t understand.”
“Listen to me, Bill,” said Hashknife severely. “What did those men do to
you?”
“Those men? Oh, do you mean the man who let me out of the jail?”
“There were at least a dozen of them, Bill.”
“Possibly. I saw but one. He unlocked the cell door, pointed toward the
back door and said, ‘Get to hell out of here.’ Rather a difficult order
to fulfill, of course, but I went as far as I could. After I got out, I
had no idea of what to do; so I walked out here.”
“What did this one man look like?”
“I haven’t any idea because he wore a covering on his face. I thought it
rather queer at the time, but I was pleased to get out, you see.”
“Did he carry a light?”
“None at all; but there was light enough shining down the corridor from
the sheriff’s office for me to see him rather plainly.”
Hashknife stood up and leaned against the porch. He could not understand
what it was all about. Why should these men let Bill loose? It was
rather a ridiculous thing to do, he thought.
“Did you come around to the main street?” he asked, thinking that Bill
might have seen the crowd around the front of the office.
“No, I did not.”
“What did you think, when this man let you out?”
“Oh, I was quite pleased with him.”
“Mm-m-m. Bill, you’re a queer jigger. But what’s to be done now? They’ll
put you back in jail and try you for murder.”
“I should hate to go back there again.”
“I should think you would.”
“Can’t we hide him?” asked Mary.
Hashknife had been revolving the thing over in his mind. Could it be
possible that some man had released Bill, knowing that the lynchers were
coming? It was a bare possibility. And next time Bill would be there
when they came.
“Where on earth could we hide him?” said Hashknife.
“Oh, I know!” Mary’s voice was eager. “Over there against the hill is an
old dugout. It was my playhouse when I was a little girl. There is a lot
of brush around the doorway and nobody ever goes there. We could get
some blankets for him, and One Hop would—One Hop will do anything I tell
him.”
“By golly, it’s a chance!” exclaimed Hashknife. “But just remember,
we’ll all go to jail if he’s discovered.”
“Rather a foolish move on your part, then,” said Bill.
“I’m not afraid,” said Mary. “I’ll get the blankets right now.”
She went into the house, and Hashknife turned to Bill. “Pardner, you’ve
got to play the game with us. If you go back to that jail, your neck
will be disjointed inside of a week. If you hide in this dugout, by
golly, you stay there durin’ the daylight. One peep out of you, and we
all go to jail, _sabe?_”
“I understand, Hashknife—and thanks. Mighty good of you both.”
“You play the game, Bill McGill.”
Mary came out with several blankets and a pillow. She carried a few
candles and led the way to the dugout, which was on the slope behind the
stable. A jutting rock and some brush concealed the old doorway from the
ranch-house. It was about fifteen feet deep by ten feet wide, dirt floor
and no furnishings of any kind.
Mary made up a bed for Bill. It looked fairly hard, but Bill was
grateful and promised to keep well hidden. Hashknife and Mary raided the
kitchen for enough food to keep him one day, and they brought him a
bucket of water too.
“I’ll let One Hop in on it tomorrow,” said Mary. “He’ll keep a secret
and he’ll see that you don’t starve.”
They shook hands with the boy and went back to the house.
“This has been a big night,” Hashknife laughed. “I hate to keep Evans in
ignorance and let him ride the hocks off his bronc, lookin’ for the
corpse of Bill McGill; but it won’t hurt him.”
“Pink wasn’t hurt much, was he?”
“Couple of stitches. Well, you better go to bed, Miss Lawbreaker.”
Mary laughed and held out her hand.
“Good night, pardner.”
The door closed softly behind her, and Hashknife faded out toward the
stable, leading his tall gray horse.
CHAPTER XI — CALIENTE AND PIUTE THROW A PARTY
Both Evans and Lowry were gone when Hashknife rode to Willow Wells early
the following morning. The blacksmith told Hashknife that Steve Pelliser
had gone along with them and that they were hunting for Bill McGill’s
body. The whole town was talking about it, speculating, wondering who
was in the mob. Nick Lee and Sam Hall rode in about ten o’clock, and
Hashknife wondered whether they had not come to get the latest
information.