Mavericks
track on it, and when I do come out for a little visit he up and hits me
over the head for it. I’d like to bet forty dollars that he _did_ kill
Ed Hart. That jigger is mean enough to kill anybody.”
* * * * *
There was little of the grandeur of the early mining days left to Santa
Dolores. The town had possibly fifty inhabitants, who eked out a living
from the cattlemen and an occasional mining venture. It was on the same
railroad as Newton, but it had become only a flag station, without even
a dot on the map to show its existence. Many of the buildings had fallen
down, and the inhabitants did not think it worth their time to remove
the débris. Santa Dolores was in a fair way to become another of the
ghost towns, although the inhabitants swore by the place and wished for
another mining boom.
It was close to midnight when Hashknife came to Santa Dolores. He had
taken the road over to Cinnabar and followed the old stage road from
there to Santa Dolores. It was a distance of about forty-five miles from
Willow Wells, but over a road which would be impassable for vehicles.
Hashknife did not go to Cinnabar. He wondered if the horsethief was
still running the hotel there, and decided to find out on his way back.
He stabled his tired horse and got a bed at a rickety hotel, where the
old man in charge showed him to bed with a lantern.
“You won’t find no bed bugs,” he was assured solemnly. “Even a bed bug
must eat once in a while, and our guests are few and far between.”
“That’s some consolation,” agreed Hashknife. “Have you lived here long?”
“About as long as there is. Yessir, I’m one of the oldest.” This was
said proudly.
“Is this the county seat?”
“Used to be. Yessir, this was shore a good town in them days. We held
the honor of bein’ the county seat until about ten year ago, when the
court house burned down. They moved the county seat up to Piñon City,
then, where she is now.”
“Court house burned, eh?”
“Y’betcha. Destroyed everythin’ connected with it.”
This did not sound so good to Hashknife. He wanted to get at some of the
old records.
“Remember Jim McGowan?”
“Jim McGowan? Lemme see. Jim McGowan. Did he tend bar here?”
“I heard he was the sheriff.”
“Jim McGowan? Lemme see. Well, mebbe he was. Come to think of it, there
was a McGowan sheriff. Yessir, there was. I ’member him now. Jim
McGowan. Ain’t it funny how you’ll forget things like that? Do you know
him?”
“He was killed over near Willow Wells a while back.”
“The deuce he was! Ain’t that too bad? I knowed him so well, too. I’m
shore sorry about it. Great feller, Jim was. Us old-timers do pass away.
I come near gittin’ me some harp lessons last winter. Damn’ house fell
in on me. I jumped up and down on the floor to see if she was stout.
Floor was all right, but the damn’ roof jumped down on me. They dug me
out and said, ‘Abner, you’re dead.’ Fooled ’em. They all said, ‘Well,
it’s jist like Abner—he will play jokes, even on the undertaker.’ I
allus was knowed as a great joker. Well, I hope you sleep well. But if
you feel like jumpin’ up and down to test the floor—remember what I told
you.”
Hashknife assured him that he did not feel at all like jumping up and
down on the floor. It was far from a good bed, but he was tired and
slept until nine o’clock. The proprietor cooked him some breakfast and
talked incessantly. He had forgotten Jim McGowan, and it needed quite a
lot of prompting on Hashknife’s part to enable him to remember.
But Hashknife soon found that the man’s memory was hazy on most things
that happened in the past; so he went out to look over the town. Near
the depot was a sizable loading corral and there was evidence that it
had been used as a shipping point.
Hashknife circulated around the old town, trying to find someone who
knew clearly of the things that happened in the heyday of Santa Dolores.
He had little luck, until he found two old men playing seven-up for
matches in the livery stable where he kept his horse.
They were a pair of ancients, there was no doubt of that. Hashknife sat
down with them. They filled their pipes.
“I imagine you’ve lived here a long time,” said Hashknife.
“If you mean me,” said one, “you’re all wrong. I’m a seafarin’ man from
Gloucester. Hennery Cable’s my name. Come from a long line of
ancestors—mighty long. The first Cables built—”
“He’s off like a stick of dinnymite!” exploded the other old man
disgustedly. “I’ve heard that so many times. Seafarin’!”
“I am so, John Byrd! You know danged well I’ve been around the Horn
twice in windjammers. I c’n prove it.”
“Twice! And you started from—where was it?”
“New Bedford.”
“Uh-huh. Last time you came overland, eh?”
“I did not! All the trippin’ I ever done was before the mast.”
“Then you’re back in New Bedford, ain’t cha?”
“I’m right here, you old moth-eaten badger.”
“Yeah, and you’ve been here fifteen year. I don’t believe you ever seen
the ocean, except in a pitcher. Seafarin’!”
The seafaring man glared angrily, helped himself to a fresh chew of
tobacco and looked Hashknife over.
“You ain’t droppin’ anchor in this harbor, be you?”
Hashknife laughed and shook his head.
“Don’t. If you ever spoke a word, they’d make you out a liar. They think
the Horn is somethin’ that grew on a cow. I’m jist about through with
this place.”
“You’d think he jist come here,” jeered the other. “Fifteen years, or
I’m a cow’s uncle. And the lies he’s told about spearin’ whales, and
wrecks. Huh! Wouldn’t know a whale if he met him on the road. There’s
three damn’ liars in Arizony, and Hennery Cable’s all three of ’em.”
“Well,” said Henry Cable disconsolately, “that’s the worst of a sailor
comin’ out here. You can’t prove seamanship in no danged desert.”
“I’ve been here twenty-five years, and I’m proud of it,” said Byrd.
“A feller like you don’t need much to make him proud.”
The argument might have been interminable, but Hashknife asked Byrd if
he remembered when Jim McGowan was sheriff of that county.
“Jim McGowan? Shore do. Why, he was buried here a short time ago, and I
went to his buryin’.”
“That’s right, he was. Remember him pretty well, eh?”
“Pretty much. I was in and out of here at that time. Minin’, mostly.”
“Ever know Caliente Smith?”
“Knowed lotsa Smiths, but I don’t jist remember that one.”
“Drove stage between here and Cinnabar.”
“Yeah? Prob’ly. Long time ago, that was.”
“Do you remember a big holdup, in which a lot of raw gold was stolen?”
The old man filled his pipe carefully, tamped the tobacco down with a
gnarled finger, and frowned thoughtfully.
“I jist do remember that,” he said. “It was on a stage between here and
Cinnabar. But I ain’t so very clear on the details. Lemme see. Yeah, I
was freightin’ at that time, but I ’member the holdup. They shore got
plenty _dinero_, them fellers.”
“More than one man?”
“Yeah, there was. Lemme see. Yeah, they shot one feller all up, but the
rest of ’em got away with the gold. I ain’t recollected that incident
f’r years.”
“Did this one man die?”
“I ain’t shore about that. You see, one man more or less in them days
didn’t make no difference.”
“And the gold mines played out, eh?”
“Oh, shore. Nobody left there now.”
“I think there was a guard shot at that holdup,” said Hashknife, trying
to refresh the old man’s memory. “The sheriff’s horse was killed, so he
took one of the stage horses to ride.”
“Yessir, that’s a fact. Buck Bowen was the guard. Crippled for life, he
was. The bullet took him in the elbow. I kinda remember, now. That
feller’s name was Neilson—Nelson—Neilan? No, it was Neal—well, somethin’
like that. He was tried right here in Santa Dolores.”
“Then he didn’t die, eh?”
“Mebbe he did. I ’member there was a trial, but I wasn’t here.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Oh, I reckon about twenty year ago.”
“Did you ever hear of the Willow Valley Copper Company?”
“Nope. Don’t remember it, anyway.”
“Did you ever know a Dr. McGill?”
“Dr. McGill? Can’t place him. Was he doctorin’ around here?”
“I don’t suppose he was.”
Hashknife thanked them for the information and went back to the hotel,
where he talked with the old landlord again. He remembered Jim McGowan
readily, and they talked about Jim’s being buried in Santa Dolores.
“I was to his buryin’,” declared the old man. “I c’n see it jist as
plain as though it was yesterday.”
“How long ago was it?” asked Hashknife curiously.
“Twenty-two year ago last winter.”
Hashknife gave up. There did not seem to be any one in Santa Dolores
whose memory was clear on events of twenty years ago; so he decided to
ride back that evening to Cinnabar. But this time he was going to be
more careful with his horse.
CHAPTER XV — BILL IS TAKEN FOR A RIDE
The mellow notes of One Hop’s gong echoed from the hills as the three
men in the SP bunkhouse drew on their boots that morning. They had been
trying to frame up something to tell Mary about Pink Lowry. None of them
knew what time Pink left the ranch.
“Mebbe we better lay off Pink,” said Thursday. “Steve ain’t in no
joshin’ frame of mind, you know, and if we’ve got anythin’ funny to pull
off, we better wait until Steve ain’t there.”
Thursday stamped into his boots and went outside, where he headed for
the stable. It was religion with Thursday to see that his horse was all
right before eating breakfast. Sleepy and Sid finished dressing and went
up to the back porch, where they performed their morning ablutions at
the old wash basins, splattering water all over each other and
quarreling over the towel.
Mary came out through the kitchen and they grinned at her.
“Didn’t expect you up before noon today,” said Sid, seriously.
“Why not?”
“Oh, I dunno. Me, I’d sleep half the day, if I set up all night.”
“I wasn’t up all night.”
“No? Didn’t I see Pink ridin’ away from here jist at daybreak?”
“You did not, Sid.”
“Well, it shore looked like him. I called Sleepy to the winder, and I
said, ‘There goes young Lochinvar.’ Didn’t I, Sleepy?”
“Somethin’ like that,” mumbled Sleepy, his face in the towel. Neither of
them had been up at daylight, and Mary knew it.
Thursday was coming up from the stable, half running in his haste.
“Is Steve in the house?” he asked.
“Eating breakfast,” said Mary.
“Well, that’s danged funny! My saddle’s missin’.”
“Your saddle?” grunted Sid. “What’s th’ joke, Thursday?”
“No joke about it—it’s gone.”
“You prob’ly left it somewhere.”
“I hung it up last night, I tell you. I’m not jokin’, Sid.”
“Huh! I suppose somebody packed it away on their back, eh?”
“I’ll betcha they didn’t. Sleepy’s horse is gone, too.”
Sleepy dropped the towel and started for the stable, with Sid and
Thursday following. Mary went in and told Steve, who came out at once.
There was no question that Sleepy’s horse and Thursday’s saddle were
missing.
“It was shore there when I stabled Pink’s horse,” said Thursday.
“You don’t suppose Pink played a joke on us, do you?” asked Sid.
“That kind of stuff is no joke,” said Steve seriously as they went back
to the house. “I’ll give you another horse, Sleepy, and if that saddle
don’t show up, I’ll buy another one for Thursday.”
“That ain’t the point—but thanks just the same,” said Sleepy. “I’d like
to get my fingers on that gent.”
“Me too,” grunted Thursday. “I jist had that saddle well broke in.”
“It ought to be,” said Sid. “You’ve had it five years.”
Sleepy had a suspicion that Pink Lowry might know something about the
missing horse and saddle, so after breakfast he and Thursday went to
town, while Steve and Sid rode east to see how the waterholes were on
that side of the range.
One Hop fixed up a nice breakfast for Bill McGill, and Mary took it over