Mavericks
“What do you make of this?” queried Thursday, pointing at a rather queer
burn on the log, which appeared to be fresh.
Sleepy did not know what it was, and neither did Brayton.
“I can danged soon tell you what it is,” said Thursday. “It’s the vent
iron of the Diamond R. They use a six pointed star, cut out of a flat
piece of iron, big enough to cover most any brand.”
Sleepy nodded slowly. It was the iron used to vent another brand when an
outfit bought branded cattle and wanted to run their own mark on the
animal. The vent brand was registered the same as a regular brand, but
was supposed only to be used legally.
“That don’t mean nothin’,” said Brayton. “You can’t prove that mark was
burned today, and you can’t prove it was used on our cows.”
“Look for a six pointed star vent on the left shoulder.”
“Yeah, and the HN outfit brand on the left shoulder, too.”
“That’s the worst of it. But them jaspers was stealin’ cows. You’ve got
to admit that, Sid.”
“You’re danged right they was. Golly, it’s lucky they didn’t hit Mary.”
“Didn’t miss her far,” said Sleepy grimly. “Broke her bronc’s neck near
the shoulder, and the animal was facin’ them. A few inches higher—”
“You looked at the animal?”
“Before I came down here. We better collect her saddle and bridle on the
way back. There’s no use huntin’ for them jiggers. They faded out of
here mighty quick after we left, and they probably scattered the cattle.
How many men did you see, Thursday?”
“I’m sure of three. Mebbe there was more. I dunno.”
They took the rig off the dead horse and rode back to the ranch, where
they found Steve. Mary had told him all about it, and he was anxious to
get more news. He looked a little pale, but his jaw bulged angrily when
they told him about the vent mark on the log.
“Of course, you can’t put the deadwood on anybody through that,” said
Thursday.
“No, you can’t. Well, I dunno.” Steve’s eyes narrowed as he looked off
across the hills. “I reckon we’ll call it a day. If they’d hurt Mary—”
Sleepy explained how close she came to being shot. Steve sighed and went
back to the house. Thursday shrugged his shoulders dismally at the lack
of fight in Steve Pelliser.
“The killin’ of Ed Hart has shore handcuffed Steve,” he declared. “He
ain’t been the same man since. He jist don’t seem to care what happens.
If we got killed protectin’ his danged cows, he prob’ly wouldn’t give us
a decent burial.”
“Prob’ly not,” agreed Sleepy.
In the meantime, Hashknife rode out to the Diamond R ranch. He was
curious to know how Scotty had squared that calf deal with Steve, but he
was not going to be foolish enough to ask him. There was always a chance
that Scotty might say something that would give him a lead. Hashknife
had never been there before. It was on the main road to Newton, one of
the old type ranch-houses, part adobe, part weathered lumber. The
stables and outhouses were all one story affairs. The Diamond R was one
of the oldest cattle outfits in the country. The first owners had set
out a big grove of cottonwoods, which nearly concealed the old place.
Scotty and Smith were home, and Scotty’s greeting was none too friendly.
Hashknife had the feeling that Scotty was suspicious of him. Smith was
braiding a quirt, seated on a box in the shade of the stable, while
Scotty humped on his heels beside him, watching the operation. Neither
of them got up when Hashknife rode in and dismounted.
“What’s new?” asked Scotty curiously.
“Not a thing,” replied Hashknife. “I got tired of listenin’ to folks
talk about bank robbers, so I went for a ride.”
“I reckon it made plenty talk.” Scotty smiled.
“And that’s all,” growled Smith. “That’s about all the law does these
days.”
“That’s true,” agreed Hashknife. “But what can the law do? When a
criminal don’t leave any tracks, how can you find him?”
“If I robbed a bank I’d prob’ly leave my photograph on the floor,” said
Scotty, flipping pebbles at a lizard. “They’d get me before I got a mile
away.”
“I dunno about me.” Hashknife grinned. “It looks like a safe way to get
some money. Still, I’m not smart enough to leave without losin’ a hat or
my gun, or somethin’ with my name on it.”
The conversation shifted to the killing of Edward Hart.
“You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?” asked Hashknife.
“Ever since I’ve been in the Valley. He was all right.”
“What become of the kid that killed him?” queried Smith.
Hashknife smiled.
“The county is bettin’ you a thousand dollars against nothin’ that you
can’t find him.”
“Funny deal,” said Scotty soberly. “Didja ever find out anythin’ about
the dozen men that turned him loose?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“They didn’t leave any tracks.”
“And the kid faded out, eh? I don’t blame him—he was guilty as hell.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“It’s shore my opinion, Hartley.”
“I don’t think there’s any question of a jury convictin’ him.”
“Not a bit.”
“A cow jury—” Smith grinned crookedly—“ain’t nothin’ to monkey with.”
“I’ve seen ’em do strange things.”
“Well, a jury won’t never try that kid,” declared Scotty. “In the first
place, our sheriff’s office is damned inefficient.”
“Did you ever work in a sheriff’s office?” asked Hashknife.
“I never did. Why?”
“Oh, nothin’. I knew your brother used to be a sheriff, and thought
mebbe you worked with him.”
Scotty was silent for several moments, scowling at the ground. Then:
“No, I never worked with him at that time. Who told you he was sheriff?”
“I think it was Caliente Jones. He merely mentioned the fact while he
was tellin’ a story of his experiences as a stage driver. Santa Dolores,
wasn’t it?”
“Yeah—Santa Dolores. He’s buried there, Hartley. You didn’t know him,
didja?”
“No; that was before I came here.”
“Uh-huh.”
Smith went into the stable to get more leather.
“Queer sort of a _hombre_,” said Scotty. “Good worker, but kinda queer.
I suppose that kickin’ didn’t help him much. He gets bad headaches—bad
enough to put him in bed. I kinda feel sorry for him.”
“Nice of you to give him a job.”
“Oh, he’s able to work for his money. Don’t smoke nor drink much. Likes
to set and work on ropes and things like that. He looks bad, but he
ain’t.”
Smith came out and resumed his seat on the box.
“The killin’ of Hart kinda hurt Steve Pelliser,” said Hashknife.
Scotty nodded thoughtfully.
“They were good friends. Steve’s all right. Me and him get along fine.”
* * * * *
The talk shifted and they spoke about cattle, with no mention of calves.
And as Hashknife did not want to broach the subject, he rode back to
town no wiser than when he came. He talked for awhile with Pink, who was
still a little sour over his promise to Mary.
“Every cloud has a silver linin’,” said Hashknife. “Sometimes you got to
put the silver on for yourself. If you wasn’t as dumb as an oyster and
as sore headed as a bee-stung bear, you’d go out to see her.”
“She don’t want to see _me_.”
“Well, she _might_.”
“Yea-a-aah?” Pink brightened visibly. “Well, I—what the hell do you know
about it anyway?”
“I’m just tellin’ you, tha’s all.”
“Thank you—kindly.”
“You’re welcome.”
Hashknife went on out to the ranch, where Sleepy and Thursday told him
about their run-in with the rustlers.
“Too bad you didn’t wait and see what they looked like,” said Hashknife.
“Yeah!” snorted Sleepy. “And us with two puny six-guns and a shovel and
a pick, against rifles. And with a girl. You’d have stayed and peeked,
eh?”
“No.” Hashknife grinned. “I’d have come home as fast as I could. Mebbe I
wouldn’t have waited for a horse, ’cause when they’re shootin’ at me,
I’m not botherin’ about anythin’ but myself.”
After supper Hashknife talked with Steve about it. Mary was hobbling
around with a bandaged knee, and Steve watched her with gloomy eyes.
Steve had little to say to Hashknife, not even making a guess as to who
had fired the shots.
“That brand mark on the log don’t prove anythin’,” he said.
“And,” said Hashknife, “if you did find a vented brand on the left
shoulder, you couldn’t tell whether it was your cow or a HN cow, or some
other cow that the Diamond R had shipped in here.”
“That’s right, Hashknife, you couldn’t. It’s a mistake for two outfits
to brand on the same spot, but both brands have been registered for
years, and neither of us have ever thought of making a change. Uncle
Hoddy’s outfit was originally located below where Newton is now, but he
came up here fifteen years ago.”
“Sleepy says that bullet only needed a few inches elevation to have hit
Mary.”
Steve shook his head wearily.
“That’s somethin’ I don’t even want to think about.”
“You think a lot of Mary.”
“Think a lot of her? Hartley, I’m not a man to make a fuss over anybody,
but if anythin’ ever happened to her—”
“I know how you feel. Mary is a wonderful girl.”
“Well, I don’t care much for anythin’ else. I sent her away to school,
and I was scared she’d get some tall notions—but she didn’t. You can’t
change Mary.”
“If I was twenty years younger—” Hashknife smiled.
“I wouldn’t put anythin’ in your way, Hashknife. I wonder why you never
got married.”
“Well, I never stopped long enough in one place.”
“You don’t believe in love at first sight?”
“Shore. But not marriage, Steve.”
“I reckon that’s a good way to look at it. I think Mary is kinda sweet
on Pink Lowry. Pink’s a nice kid. But he don’t come out to see her. He’s
fought shy of here ever since Jim McGowan was killed. Nobody blames
him.”
“He’s jealous of Bill McGill.”
“Ho-o-o! Of Bill McGill, eh? Well, Bill’s gone, and there’s nothin’ to
stop him.”
“Would you have considered Bill as a son-in-law?”
“Not in a million years! Why—well, I wouldn’t, that’s all. I—I want her
to marry her own kind of people.”
“That’s right. Well, I reckon I’ll hit the hay.”
“Do you know anythin’ new?”
“Nothin’ worth talkin’ about. I think I’ll go out and read some brands
tomorrow. Mebbe I can find some six pointed stars.”
Steve nodded slowly.
CHAPTER XIV — HASHKNIFE JOURNEYS TO SANTA DOLORES
But Hashknife did not find any vented brands the next day. He and Sleepy
rode all day across the range, looking over bunches of cattle, but not a
single one bore a vented brand.
“It looks as though you broke up the party,” decided Hashknife. “It was
probably their first move at ventin’ brands, and you ruined it.”
“That’s about it. But will they quit at that?”
“Not likely.”
They got back to the ranch at supper time and talked it over with Steve,
who seemed relieved to think that his cattle were untouched. Steve had
been to town that day, giving Mary a good opportunity to see Bill. One
Hop kept him plentifully supplied with food, and Mary kept him in books;
but she said that Bill was getting restless.
“He thinks he ought to get out of the country,” Mary told Hashknife.
“I’ve explained that there’s no way for him to get out. Some officer
would pick him up, sure. But—oh, I don’t know. He gets bull headed at
times. You might have a talk with him.”
“I don’t know what to do with him. I’ve worn my brain to a whisper
tryin’ to figure out some way to clear him, but nothin’ works out. If he
leaves here, he’s a goner. There’s a thousand reward, which is an
inducement to anybody. Anyway, I’ll try to talk sense to him. Saw Pink
yesterday.”
“How is he?” the girl asked him quickly.
“All right physically, but all wrong mentally. Lookin’ through blue
glasses.”
Mary laughed and shook her head.
“I don’t understand him. The only time he’s been out here since the
night of the party was when he caught me with all those boiled eggs.”
“He thinks enough of you to keep still about Bill McGill.”
“In other words, he thinks more of my opinion of him than he does of