Mavericks
did not understand what it was all about. He was perfectly willing to
have assistance, but he did not see what a mere cowboy could do.
* * * * *
Caliente and Piute came down to breakfast at noon. They were still
grumbling at each other. The bartender
had taken Caliente down to the doctor’s office, or rather his home,
before putting them to bed at the hotel, and Caliente was favoring his
arm that morning.
Hashknife made it a point to meet them, and the three of them went to
the restaurant together, where Hashknife told them what had happened at
the bank and how Caliente got shot. They were amazed.
“We thought you fired both shots,” said Hashknife. “You had two empty
shells in your gun.”
“I allus keep the hammer on a empty shell, young feller.”
“That accounts for it.”
“But who robbed the bank?” asked Piute, gulping down some water.
“Nobody knows.”
They ordered their breakfast, the eating of which seemed to put them in
better humor.
“You’ve been around here a long time, ain’t you, Caliente?” asked
Hashknife.
“He’s the oldest inhabitant,” declared Piute, wolfing hotcakes.
“No such a damn’ thing! I’ve been in Arizony a long time.”
“Punchin’ cows all the time?”
“Not all the time. I’ve driv’ stage, mined a little.”
“That was before my time,” grinned Piute. “All I believe is what I’ve
seen.”
“Who cares what you believe? I had me plenty copper claims in the old
days, but they never panned out. Gimme that syrup, Piute. Yeah, that’s
it—the pitcher with all the flies on the outside.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Hashknife.
“Twenty-odd year ago. I used to drive the stage from Cinnabar to Santa
Dolores.”
“Not very damn’ long,” said Piute, reaching for the syrup. “They got on
to him and fired him off the job.”
“No such a danged thing. I quit. Got held up and the guard was shot in
the arm. He reached for his gun. The owners of the stage acted as if I
should have took a chance, so I got mad and quit. Gimme the syrup.”
“I’d believe that if I’d seen it,” said Piute.
“Well, I ain’t goin’ to prove nothin’ to you. Jim McGowan was the
sheriff of Santa Dolores at that time. He didn’t know me, ’cause I was
quite a new man there at that time. But if he was alive, I could make
him remember me. Him and his deputy took one of my stage horses. You
see, them three stage robbers downed the sheriff’s horse and they needed
rollin’ stock.”
“How much money did they git off your imagination stage?” asked Piute.
“Forty-five thousand.”
“Haw-haw-haw-haw-haw! Forty-five thousand what? Not dollars?”
“Danged close to two hundred pounds of raw gold.”
Piute shook his head at Hashknife.
“You can’t do a thing with him when he’s thataway. Humor him and wait
until he’s back to normal.”
Hashknife smiled, as the two old men glared at each other.
“Did they recover the gold?” asked Hashknife.
“They never did. Two men got away. The sheriff got one of ’em. The posse
shot him, I reckon. I dunno much about it, ’cause I quit my job.”
“Tell us some more of your adventures, Diamond Dick,” begged Piute.
“I’ve read that one before.”
“Read? You couldn’t read nothin’.”
“That was a lot of money to get away with,” observed Hashknife.
“Lot of story to git away with, too.” Piute laughed.
“Gospel truth, you—you sidewinder.”
“McGowan used to be the sheriff at Santa Dolores, eh?”
“Y’betcha. Served out his term. I heard his wife died up there. That’s
why Scotty took his body up there, I reckon. Next time I seen Jim
McGowan, he was runnin’ a big gamblin’ house in Apache City. That was
about three years later. He shore was doin’ great, but I reckon he got
to rollin’ ’em a little too high ’cause he went out of business, and I
never seen him again until he bought out the Diamond R ranch.”
“You spoke about the minin’ around here,” said Hashknife. “Did you ever
hear of the Willow Valley Copper Company?”
Caliente thought deeply, and Piute grinned maliciously.
“Pardner, you’re leavin’ yourself wide open for some awful lyin’.”
“I don’t remember it,” said Caliente. “Nossir, I don’t.”
“Well, I’m shore surprised,” said Piute. “He remembers the Battle o’
Waterloo perfectly.”
Caliente ignored Piute.
“There was a lot of minin’ goin’ on, and a lot of companies formed; but
I don’t remember that one. I owned the Copper Girl, the Copper Kid and
the Sweetheart mines, and I had half interest in several others. But
they never paid nothin’. Nobody made anythin’ until they made that big
gold strike out east of Cinnabar. That played out in a year or so. It
was the gold from them mines that I was haulin’ when I was held up. It
was worth eighteen dollars per ounce and I had close to two hundred
pounds.”
“If reports are true,” said Piute dryly, “I reckon me and you better
hightail it for home. We’ll prob’ly git a lecture from Aunt Ida, as it
is. Uncle Hoddy kinda knocked her ears down awhile back. Declared
himself as bein’ a free man. Since then she’s laid off him, but piled it
plenty on me and Caliente. He deserves it, I suppose—the drunken idiot.”
Hashknife went down to the stable with them and watched them ride away,
still arguing. The old men were prone to exaggeration, and Hashknife
wondered how much of that holdup story was true. Probably none of it, he
decided. Nearly all the old-timers had at least one wild story to tell,
but usually they figured as the heroes of the tales. Caliente had merely
quit the job because the owners doubted his bravery.
He asked Evans if he knew that Jim McGowan had been sheriff at Santa
Dolores, but Evans had never heard anything about it. He had never heard
of McGowan until he bought the Diamond R, nor had he ever heard McGowan
say anything about ever having been a sheriff.
* * * * *
Mary told her father about the robbery, and he came to town, anxious to
learn the details. He told Hashknife that he was a director in the bank.
Uncle Hoddy was another of the directors, and Davis had already sent a
man out to notify him. Aunt Ida came in with him. Caliente and Piute had
told him about the robbery, and he was ready to leave when he had
official word from Davis.
They all met at the bank, in company with the sheriff, to talk things
over. It was nearly noon when Sleepy and Thursday rode in. They found
Hashknife and Pink at the sheriff’s office. Thursday wanted to talk with
the sheriff.
“I’m his shadder,” said Pink. “What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you what I want—I want somebody’s scalp. Me and Sleepy found
a SP cow this mornin’ sucklin’ a Diamond R calf. And that Diamond R
ain’t twenty-four hours old. They might at least wait until a calf gits
through suckin’, before they _oreano_ him.”
Pink looked serious. Things like that had been done before, and only in
rare cases was it discovered. An _oreano_ is a motherless, unbranded
calf, legitimate prey of the first man to run on his brand. But this
calf had not yet left its mother.
“And we’ve got the mother and daughter in an old corral, ready to give
plenty evidence,” said Sleepy.
“That,” said Pink, “looks mighty bad for Scotty McGowan.”
“I’ll tell you it does,” agreed Thursday. “Awful bad. He’ll have a lot
of tall explainin’ to do to Steve Pelliser.”
Pink stepped to the door, looked out and came back quickly.
“There’s Scotty and that scar faced Smith,” he said, picking up his belt
and gun, which he had laid aside. “Mebbe we better wait for Dud and
Steve.”
“Good scheme,” agreed Hashknife.
A few minutes later Steve, Uncle Hoddy and the sheriff came down to the
office, talking earnestly. Thursday told Steve what they had discovered.
Steve was mad.
“That’s goin’ too far,” he said angrily.
“Scotty and that scar faced Smith are over at the War Paint,” said Pink.
“Let me handle this,” suggested the sheriff. “No use makin’ trouble out
loud. I’ll bring Scotty over here.”
“Go ahead,” grunted Steve shortly. In a few minutes Evans came back with
Scotty, and they walked into the office. Scotty looked sharply at the
other men, but said nothing.
“Here’s what I wanted you for,” said the sheriff. “Stevens and Thursday
say they found a SP cow this mornin’, sucklin’ a Diamond R calf.”
Scotty’s eyes narrowed, but he did not flinch.
“Plenty nerve,” thought Hashknife.
“And the Diamond R calf ain’t more than twenty-four hours old,” said
Thursday.
Scotty smiled a little, but his eyes were hard.
“Yeah,” he said slowly.
“Well?” queried Steve angrily. “What about it, McGowan?”
Scotty looked at Steve for several moments. Then—
“I’d like to talk privately with you, Pelliser.”
“Talk privately, eh?”
“If you don’t mind—yeah.”
“All right, I’ll listen to you.”
They walked out, crossed the street and stopped near the blacksmith
shop. It was too far away for any one to hear what was being said or to
see the expressions on their faces. They were there for at least five
minutes, after which they walked together up to the War Paint.
The suspense was too much for Thursday. He went over to the saloon,
where he met Steve on the porch. They talked for a few moments, after
which Steve went to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and rode homeward.
Thursday watched him ride away, scratched his head thoughtfully and came
slowly back to the office.
“You can ask me all the questions you care to,” he said, “but I’ll be
darned if I can answer ’em. Steve jist said, ‘It’s all settled, so we’ll
drop the matter, Thursday.’”
“Can you imagine that? Droppin’ a case of plain rustlin’! What’s the
matter with folks, anyway?”
The sheriff shook his head. He had troubles of his own. Hashknife
lighted a fresh cigarette and smoked thoughtfully.
“Well,” said Sleepy, “if he don’t care—I don’t. They ain’t my calves.”
“That’s the best way to look at it,” said Hashknife.
Sleepy and Thursday went back to the ranch, and the sheriff went to the
War Paint with Hashknife, where they found Scotty in a poker game. He
grinned at them rather triumphantly. Smith was at the bar, having a
drink alone. Hashknife studied him at a distance, wondering what he
really looked like before the horse kicked him in the face.
There were livid, bare patches in his bristling gray hair, where the
doctor had sewed his scalp together. He was possibly past fifty years of
age, hard as nails. His fists were gnarled, calloused, and the leer on
his twisted face was not good to see. His eyes were a slate blue, and he
was evidently letting his beard grow to cover some of his scars.
He wore an old, homemade cartridge belt, sagging heavily from the pull
of a big Colt. The holster was held down by a leather string which
circled his right leg.
“Ties his holster down,” observed Hashknife to himself. “Mebbe his belt
fits loose, and the gun bobs when the horse gallops, or mebbe he’s
lookin’ for a quick pull and wants to be sure it comes loose.”
* * * * *
They were still in the saloon when Hashknife decided to go back to the
ranch. He realized that he was accomplishing nothing. Why did Pelliser
make some sort of deal with Scotty McGowan? What kind of deal could two
men make in a case of this kind? McGowan had not denied his guilt in the
matter. It looked to Hashknife as if Scotty had something on Steve
Pelliser. It was not like Steve to overlook a plain case of stealing,
but it seemed that he had.
Hashknife stabled his horse and went around to the bunkhouse. Mary was
on the back porch, talking with One Hop. When she saw Hashknife she came
down to him.
“Everythin’ all right?” he asked.
“You mean with Bill? Yes, he’s all right. Dad seems all broken up over
the bank robbery. He actually looks ten years older. I have never known
anything to affect him so much. I suppose it’s partly on account of Ed