Mavericks
Lee avoided Hashknife, and a little later they rode away. It was early
in the afternoon when the sheriff came back, and with him were Steve
Pelliser, weary eyed from lack of sleep, Pink Lowry and Scotty McGowan.
They had overtaken Scotty on the road to town.
“Never found a damn’ thing,” Evans told Hashknife. “Goin’ to get some
food and then head north.”
Hashknife rode with them, and after a wide circle, they left Pelliser at
his ranch. Scotty stayed in town.
“I’ve examined trees until I’ll see ’em in my sleep,” declared Pink, as
they rode back to town.
Evans was weary and thoughtful. He had expected to have little
difficulty in locating the corpse. Hashknife seemed without any ideas at
all. Scotty was sitting in front of the office as they rode in, but
Hashknife tied his horse in front of the War Paint.
Pink took the two fagged horses to the stable, while Evans talked it
over with Scotty.
“What makes you so damn’ sure that McGill was lynched?” queried Scotty.
“What would a mob take him out for, if not to lynch him?”
“Suppose it was a bunch of his friends?”
“Rats! Where’d he get a dozen friends?”
“How do you know there was a dozen?”
“Saw ’em ridin’ away.”
“Yeah? Are you shore Bill McGill was with ’em?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just suppose, for sake of an argument, that Bill’s friends knowed he
was goin’ to get lynched.”
“You mean they’d take him out ahead— Where didja get that idea?”
“Thinkin’ about it.”
The sheriff squinted at Scotty. Evans was no fool, and he realized that
Scotty did not arrive at that conclusion from merely thinking things
over. Then—
“What friends has he got around here?”
“Well, there’s Hartley and Stevens.”
“Hartley was with me.”
“Where was Stevens?”
“Out at the Pelliser ranch. Anyway, it wouldn’t be hard to find out if
he was. Nope, I think you’re wrong, Scotty. Neither of them boys turned
him loose. Somebody lynched him last night and hid the body.”
“Have it your own way.”
“Where were you last night?”
Scotty smiled slowly.
“No, you don’t, Evans. You can’t put the deadwood on me. I was home with
my gang, and they’ll swear to it.”
“They would,” said Evans shortly.
Scotty stood up and brushed the tobacco crumbs off his shirt.
“Go ahead and hunt for a body,” he said. “It’ll give the kid plenty time
to make a clean getaway.”
Scotty headed for the War Paint, and Evans went to have a talk with the
prosecuting attorney. Down in his heart he was not sorry that Bill
McGill was not there to have his hearing. In any other place, with no
more evidence against him than they had, Bill would have stood a good
chance of never coming to trial; but not in Willow Valley.
Scotty met Hashknife in the War Paint, and Scotty insisted on buying a
drink.
“How do you feel about this Bill McGill?” he asked Hashknife. “Do you
think they lynched him and hid the body?”
“That seems to be the sheriff’s opinion.”
“What’s yours?”
“Me?” Hashknife smiled widely. “I haven’t any.”
“Did you see them take Bill away last night?”
“It was too dark for that. If I could have seen Bill McGill I might have
spotted some of the men who took him out of jail. That would have been
rather unfortunate, you know.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s quite a severe penalty for lynchers, you know.”
“I see. Well, I’m lookin’ at it from the outside. You’re a friend of the
kid, and your views would favor him, of course. It’s nothin’ to me. Hart
was a friend of mine, but I ain’t the rabid kind that demands an eye for
an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Just what the kid had against him,
nobody will ever know, unless the kid confesses.”
“And if he’s dead, he can’t talk.”
“No, that’s the truth. The sheriff believes he is. Matter of opinion, of
course, but if I was in his place, I’d kinda look for a live Bill
McGill.”
Hashknife toyed with his empty glass thoughtfully.
“Jist what makes you think Bill is alive, McGowan?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Mm-m-m.”
“Do you have hunches?”
“You’d be surprised to know some I’ve had. Well, let’s have another.
I’ll take a see-gar, if they ain’t too dry.”
“Hadn’t ought to be,” said the bartender. “We got ’em for Christmas.”
* * * * *
Hashknife was satisfied that Scotty and at least some of his gang were
in that lynching party. But as long as they did not accomplish their
purpose, the law could not touch them. After Scotty rode away, Hashknife
went over to the Bank of Willow Wells, where he found Frank Davis in
charge of things.
Davis greeted him pleasantly and they talked about the disappearance of
Bill McGill. Davis was a man of about thirty-five years of age,
prematurely gray, well educated, trustworthy. He had been connected with
the bank about four years and there had been a close friendship between
Hart and himself.
“I’m tryin’ to help the law out a little on this Hart case,” he told
Davis, “but we’re up against a blank wall. I don’t believe for a minute
that Bill McGill shot Hart. It isn’t reasonable. I want a little inside
information, if you’ll give it to me.”
“I’ll do my best, Hartley. Of course, there are things—”
“I understand that. Can you tell me if there’s anybody in this Valley
who owes or did owe Hart a lot of money on a mortgage or a note?”
Davis gave the question considerable thought. He did not like to divulge
anything confidential. He did not know Hashknife, and he was not sure
Hashknife was connected in any way with the sheriff’s office.
Hashknife appreciated his hesitancy.
“Mebbe I better bring the sheriff up to get the answer,” he said.
“No, I guess it’s all right, Hartley. The Diamond R is mortgaged with
this bank for ten thousand. That is the largest mortgage we hold at the
present time. It expires soon.”
“Was it taken out by Jim McGowan?”
“Yes. McGowan purchased the property from Mr. Hart, who took a mortgage
for that amount with the Wells bank.”
“Would the bank renew the mortgage?”
“That is up to the directors. I believe Mr. Hart would, if he were
alive.”
“Did any one owe Mr. Hart any large amount on a note?”
“I don’t believe they did.”
“Mr. Davis, did you ever suspect that Mr. Hart was afraid of anybody?”
The cashier shook his head slowly.
“I am afraid I can’t help you there. Perhaps Mr. Pelliser would know. He
and Mr. Hart were very close friends.”
Hashknife thanked him and went out. The cashier’s information was worth
nothing. He found Pink down at the sheriff’s office. His head was still
very sore, but he was in fairly good spirits.
“Dud and the prosecutin’ attorney have gone to Newton to wire out some
descriptions of Bill McGill,” he said. “I guess they’ve got a hunch that
somebody jist wanted to let Bill out, instead of hangin’ him. The county
is offerin’ a thousand dollars reward for Bill.”
Hashknife smiled over his cigaret.
“Got an idea that Bill’s friends let him out?”
“Looks thataway to them.”
“Where would he get any friends?”
“I dunno. You and Sleepy—”
“I was here in town with the sheriff, and Sleepy was at the ranch.”
“That’s what I was goin’ to say, when you went off half-cocked. Why
would a dozen men ride up here, pop me on the head and take him out
unless they wanted to hang him? My idea is that they’re holdin’ him
somewhere until the reward gits big enough, and then they’ll cash him in
like a stack of blue chips in a poker game. I may be wrong, but I’m as
much right as they are.”
“You shore are.” Hashknife grinned.
“One man’s guess is as good as another on a thing like that. I wish
you’d tell me about that shootin’ at the Pelliser ranch. I’ve only heard
parts of it.”
Pink went into details of the story, even telling about the dress suits.
He admitted that he was hurt by what McGowan had said that night, and he
told about Mary’s not wanting to dance with the older man.
“Then you didn’t know you shot at McGowan?” asked Hashknife.
“You couldn’t see your hand before your face, I tell you. There was only
one light spot in the whole danged world, and that was the open kitchen
door, and the lamplight shinin’ out on One Hop, who was makin’ ice
cream. I didn’t even hear McGowan. Of course, the wind was blowing away
from me and the orchestra was whoopin’ her up pretty strong.
“I guess I was lookin’ toward McGowan. I must have, to see the flash of
his gun. The bullet plunked the post behind me, and I shot right back
before I stopped to think about anythin’. The flash of my own gun kinda
blinded me; kinda scared me too, ’cause—well, I dunno jist why I shot.
Mebbe I was jist in the humor to shoot.
“I heard One Hop yellin’, and folks commenced to pile out of the house,
runnin’ down toward us. Then they found Mac. He was hit dead-center.”
“How did he know where you were? You didn’t have anythin’ white on?”
“Not a thing.”
“Queer thing, wasn’t it?”
“Danged queer. If he knew where I was standin’, he must have had eyes
like an owl. And you wouldn’t hardly think he’d try to kill me just
because Mary didn’t want to dance with him, would you?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Was McGowan in love with Mary?”
Pink hunched his knees up around his chin, smoking thoughtfully.
“Yeah, he was. That same night he asked Steve Pelliser about it. He told
Steve he was aimin’ to marry her, and I reckon Steve kinda threw a
monkey wrench into Mac’s machinery. Anyway, they had a verbal run-in, so
I’m told, and Steve told him to keep away from her.”
“What was Steve’s objection to McGowan?”
“I dunno. Mebbe it was ’cause McGowan was too old for her. He was as old
as Steve, you know.”
“I see. And Mac thought you had the inside track on him, eh?”
“That’s the only way I can figure it. They dug that bullet out of the
corral post, and it was the same size as Mac’s gun shoots.”
“How did Scotty act about it?”
“Oh, he was sore as a boil. Swore that Jim had been murdered. Me and him
almost made some more smoke. But I reckon he’s over it now. There’s a
dance in Newton tonight, and I wish I was goin’.”
“Why don’tcha go?”
“Well, I ain’t made no plans to go. Been so danged much goin’ on. I
reckon I’m better off right here, with all these stitches in my head.
They have some rough times down there, and I might lose all my sewin’.
Kinda ravel out, you know.”
Hashknife saw the sheriff after he came back from Newton, and was told
that notices had been wired to head off Bill McGill.
“Finally made up your mind he didn’t get hung, eh?” asked Hashknife.
“No, I ain’t. But I’ve got to play the game safe. This kind o’ thing
worries me. If I catch him again, I’ll shore guard him close. Things
like this make a sheriff look bad. Had your supper yet? No? Let’s eat.”
While they were eating, the sheriff told Hashknife he had met the
Diamond R outfit heading for the dance at Newton.
“Pink tells me that their dances are a little rough.”
“Rough? And then some! I keep me and my hired man away from there on
dance night. Lot of the boys come up from the south and they shore cut
loose. Oh, there ain’t much gunplay—not much. But they resent havin’ an
officer around. I was thataway when I was younger; so I hadn’t ought to
begrudge the boys a little leeway.”
“You know,” the sheriff went on, “I always feel kinda like the
old-timers—that the wilder the colt the better the horse.”
* * * * *
It was just growing dark when old Piute Jones and Caliente Smith rode in
from the HN ranch. The two old boys wore their Sunday clothes. Caliente
displayed a rusty black suit, with the trousers tucked into boots; Piute
was in an ancient cutaway coat and a pair of tight fitting gray pants.
He wore an old green Ascot tie and no vest. On his big feet were a pair
of congress gaiters, the elastic sides of which had long since lost
their elasticity, gaping wide at the ankles.