Mavericks
that thousand dollar reward.”
“Yeah, I reckon it would take several thousands to tempt him.”
“Is he—is he sore about Bill being here?”
“Sore about you takin’ care of Bill.”
“That’s foolish.”
“Mebbe. Of course, if Pink was hidin’ a lady in a dugout, packin’ her an
armload of boiled eggs at daylight, and you knew it—”
Mary flushed quickly, but her sense of humor was keen enough to see the
point.
“That’s true, Hashknife. Perhaps I have misjudged him.”
“He’s misjudged himself, too—and Bill McGill and you. But I had a talk
with him, and mebbe he sees the light now. He’s not ignorant, you know.”
“What in the world did you tell him?”
“Oh, I didn’t lie.” Hashknife grinned. “I reckon I’ll have to make a
little medicine talk to Bill McGill. He’s educated, but jist fool enough
to tie a rope around his own neck. And if he got out and was caught,
he’d probably tell where he’s been. I’ll speak a lot of words to him for
him, and I’ll also speak a few words to him for me and you. Hangin’
don’t mean much to him, because he’s never been hung, and don’t know how
painful it might be. Yeah, I’ll talk to Bill, plenty.”
And Hashknife did talk to Bill. He sat down in the dugout with him and
told Bill in detail just what might happen to him if he got bull headed
and left his hiding place. When Hashknife was finished, Bill had an idea
that the dugout was not the worst place in the world, after all. “But,”
said Bill, after making many promises, “I do not see why you are so
anxious to preserve my life. What am I to you?”
“It’s like this. When a prominent citizen comes to a city, they
generally hold a meetin’ and hand him the key to the place. Well, the
city is Willow Wells, I’m the prominent citizen—and you’re the key.”
“The key to what?”
“Who knows? You set here and wait developments.”
* * * * *
The next couple of days were devoid of interest, as far as Hashknife was
concerned.
The sheriff was no farther along on the robbery case, and of course he
had no knowledge of Bill McGill’s whereabouts. He felt that Hashknife
knew something about Bill McGill, but he also had a feeling that it
would be a waste of time to try to find the boy. Hashknife was somewhat
of an enigma to the sheriff. In fact, Hashknife was discussed whenever a
group of men met around Willow Wells.
But Hashknife did not care, as long as they let him alone. He was on his
way back to the ranch from town, when he was imbued with a certain
hunch. At the ranch he tied his slicker on the back of his saddle,
selected a rifle and scabbard and told Mary, who was the only one on the
place except One Hop, that he was going away for a couple of days.
He told her to tell Sleepy that everything was fine and that he would be
back when he got back. Mary did not ask him where he was going, but she
watched him ride away across the hills, heading westward.
Sleepy was a little puzzled and perhaps a little angry. He wanted to be
with Hashknife. Mary told him that Hashknife had taken a rifle; and that
admitted the possibility of trouble, because the tall cowboy seldom rode
with a rifle on his saddle. Steve had nothing to say about it. He and
the rest of the boys had been riding in the hills to the north, but
found few cattle. This was rather unusual, as that was their favorite
range at this time of the year, and the water supply was still good.
They had taken particular pains to look for vented brands, but found
none.
“I tell you, Steve’s sick,” Thursday declared, after supper that night.
“He don’t eat hardly anythin’, and he ain’t got a grin in his system. If
I was him I’d see a doctor. No use sufferin’.”
“Indigestion,” diagnosed Sid Brayton, who had not the slightest idea
what indigestion might be.
“How does that affect you?”
“Somethin’ like si-atti-ky.”
“That’s him all over.”
“If I ever get sick,” said Sleepy, grinning, “you jiggers keep away from
me. You know too much about diseases.”
“Well,” said Sid, “I can shore cure a upset stummick.”
“How?”
“Stand you on your head and tip her back to normal. Aw, go ahead and
laugh.”
Someone rode up to the front of the bunkhouse, and they went out to find
Pink Lowry, dressed in his blue suit and a red shirt.
“My Gawd!” blurted Thursday. “We ain’t done nothin’—honest!”
Pink grinned widely. He dismounted, and Sid sang mournfully:
“Oh, a cowboy went a-courtin’,
Dressed in his Sunday suit.
He bowed so grand,
Asked for her hand,
And got her father’s boot.
Root, tootie, toot ’n’ toot toot!”
“You came jist in time.” Sleepy grinned. “We been wantin’ a fourth man
to make up a poker game. C’mon right in, Officer.”
“Wait ’ll I do.” Pink laughed. “Will one of you hired men put away my
horse?”
“Ee-magine that!” blurted Thursday.
“I don’t want to git the shine off my boots,” said Pink.
“Take ’em off. You ain’t got no socks on t’ spoil. Mebbe you’d like to
have one of us go up to the house and announce that you’ve arrived.”
“You start up that way and I’ll shoot you.” Pink grinned. “I reckon I’ll
tie m’ steed to the corral fence.”
“Yeah, and let him eat a hole in it, eh? That’s all your bronc ever
gets—post oats. I’ve seen that buzzard head eat himself plumb through a
corral fence. I’ll put him in the barn, if you don’t think he’ll git
scared of some oats and choke himself to death.”
“Put a halter on him. He can’t choke himself with a halter.”
“Halter’d prob’ly scare him,” grumbled Thursday, as he led the animal
away.
“My idea of a good time,” said Sid thoughtfully, “would be for all of us
to go up to the house and spend the evenin’.”
“Wait till Thursday gets back,” said Sleepy. “Mebbe Mary will play on
the organ for us.”
“If you do,” replied Pink ominously, “they’ll be datin’ time from the
Pelliser ranch massacre. Good evenin’, gentlemen.”
Pink went striding toward the house, expecting that the three cowboys
would do just as Sid suggested; and they probably would have, except
that Sleepy pointed out that it would really be a mean trick. Sleepy had
been in love and he knew a few things about it.
Mary and her father greeted Pink warmly, and he forgot all his misery.
There was plenty of food for conversation, and when talk lagged Mary
played the organ for them. Steve retired early.
“Steve ain’t lookin’ good,” declared Pink. “What’s wrong with him?”
Mary shook her head.
“I don’t know, Pink. He says he feels all right, but he won’t eat and he
don’t sleep well.”
“Stummick gone wrong, I reckon.”
* * * * *
They went out and sat on the porch in the moonlight. It was warm out
there, and they could hear Sid Brayton strumming on his guitar down in
the bunkhouse. Crickets chirped softly, and in one of the trees a
mocking bird seemed to be trying to imitate the higher notes of the
mandolin.
“I dunno,” said Pink thoughtfully. “It’s always been so peaceful in the
Valley, and now—”
“Something has gone wrong.”
“Looks thataway. Me and Dud have been wonderin’ a lot about Hashknife.
Steve told Dud that Hashknife was workin’ on this Hart case. He didn’t
say why he was workin’ on it, nor anythin’. He don’t seem to be doin’
anythin’, as far as we can see, except to kinda set around. He ain’t a
detective, is he?”
“I don’t know a thing about him,” said Mary. “Dad gave Sleepy and
Hashknife jobs. He told me that Hashknife had an idea that Bill McGill
didn’t shoot Mr. Hart, and that he wanted Dad to discharge him, so he
could investigate. Dad wouldn’t fire him. He likes Hashknife—we all like
him—so Dad told him to keep the job and do as he pleased.”
“I reckon I was kinda sore about Bill McGill,” confessed Pink.
“When I met you with the eggs?” laughed Mary.
“Mm-m-m. Well, before that, Mary. Of course, that’s the first idea I had
that Bill was out here.”
“Hashknife is a quick thinker.”
“Quick—y’betcha. And I’ll bet he’d be a hard _hombre_ in a fight. Looks
long and thin and kinda quiet, but he’s got the squarest eyes I ever did
see. They look through you. Oh, I’m for him, even if he did frame up to
have me popped on the head in order to get Bill out of jail.”
“But he didn’t do that, Pink. I could swear he didn’t. I tell you he was
sick about it, before Bill showed up. He thought they had lynched him.”
“Mebbe I’m wrong. But I wasn’t holdin’ it against him. I couldn’t
believe Bill killed Hart.”
“They’d have hung him.”
“Sure thing. I dunno what all them men were doin’ there. Dud saw ’em.
That is, he saw a bunch of men ridin’ away from in front of the office
that night. That’s the queer part of it all. I never saw anybody, and
Bill wasn’t there to tell what he saw.”
“He saw one masked man.”
“Just one, eh? Well, I’m not goin’ to worry about it. I’m goin’ to keep
on drawin’ my hundred and ten a month, and one of these days I’ll have
enough to buy me a few cows.”
“That’s fine,” said Mary. “Dad says you ought to succeed.”
“Any man that’ll wear a dress suit and a striped shirt ought to.”
“I wonder if you’ll ever forget that?”
“Not until after I meet the suit drummer that sold it to me. He’s got a
lot of misery comin’. How do you like this suit?”
“Fine. But I like you better in the clothes you wear every day, Pink.”
Mary was very frank. Pink slowly rolled a cigarette.
“Well, I wish I’d have known that,” he said slowly. “I could have saved
the price of a couple good cows.”
“Did you buy that suit on my account?”
“Yea-a-ah—and the dress suit, too. Don’t forget the dress suit.”
Mary laughed softly, and Pink chuckled over his cigarette.
Suddenly they both looked up, at the sound of a peculiar noise. It was
like a sudden cry stopped almost before it began—one sharp note.
“What do you reckon that was?” asked Pink.
“I haven’t any idea. What did it sound like to you?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Sid was still strumming his guitar, and they could hear their voices
raised in a heated argument of some kind.
“I guess it was the boys,” said Mary.
“Probably was.”
They talked for a few minutes longer, and Pink decided to go home. He
said he did not want to wear out his welcome. They shook hands solemnly,
said good night, and Pink went to the stable without saying anything to
the boys in the bunkhouse. He was in fine spirits, whistling softly to
himself.
The stable door was half open, and as he stepped in something struck him
over the head and his consciousness went out in a shower of stars. He
felt himself falling through space for miles and miles, floating among
the clouds. They seemed heavy enough for him to walk on, like huge beds
of rubber-like mist, and he was doing well until he fell through a hole
and came back to earth with a dull thud.
For several moments he sat there in the dark, staring at the square
hole, which was the door, with the moonlight streaming through. He
wondered if that was the hole in the clouds through which he had fallen.
By degrees he realized that it was a door and that he was sitting in a
stable. His head was throbbing, and after an investigation he decided
that someone had grafted a goose egg on the side of his skull.
He got drunkenly to his feet and groped his way to the door. It was
quiet out there. He leaned against the wall and tried to puzzle out just
what had happened to him. There was no question that someone had hit
him. He looked inside, but no beams had fallen. His horse was there in
the stall, where Thursday had left it.
He walked halfway to the bunkhouse, intending to tell the boys what had
happened to him, but a sudden idea smote him and he went back to his
horse, mounted and rode away.
“That’s a hell of a way to do,” he told his horse bitterly. “Here I keep
away from her all this time, givin’ that danged tenderfoot the inside