Mavericks
to the dugout. He was usually watching for her, but this morning he was
not in evidence. She called to him as she went through the open door,
but no voice answered her.
Bill McGill was gone!
Mary went outside and looked around, but there was no sign of the boy.
She went slowly back to the kitchen. She was satisfied that Bill had
broken faith with her—and Hashknife.
“Wha’samalla?” queried One Hop, noting the returned breakfast.
“He’s gone.”
“He go way all time now?”
“I guess so, Hop. They’ll probably catch him and hang him.”
“I guess so. Not much blains, eh?”
“That must be it.”
Pink Lowry had a triumphant expression in his eyes when Thursday told
him about the missing horse and saddle. On account of the bump on his
head, Pink was wearing his sombrero at a rakish angle. While Thursday
and the sheriff talked about the stolen outfit, Pink went on a hunt for
Sleepy, found him in the War Paint and took him aside.
“See that?” Pink removed his hat and pointed to the bump.
“Somebody hit you?” asked Sleepy.
“Bill McGill.”
“Aw—”
“I tell you he did. And I’ll betcha four bits it was him that stole your
horse. The danged pup laid for me and busted my head. He shore put me to
sleep.”
“I can’t believe that Bill would hit anybody.”
“You see that bump, don’tcha?”
“Them ain’t Bill’s initials on it.”
“Well, who else would hit me?”
“I’m no mind reader. Ain’t you got no enemy, except Bill McGill?”
“None that would lay for me with a club.”
Sleepy decided that Pink was all wrong about Bill McGill. He and
Thursday rode back to the ranch a little later.
“I don’t like this here saddle a-tall,” declared Thursday.
“I don’t like this horse,” grinned Sleepy, “but he’s got four legs.”
“That’s prob’ly the last we’ll ever see of our horse and saddle. The
sheriff can’t do anythin’.”
“You didn’t expect he’d make a house to house canvass of the county,
didja?”
It was nearly dinner time when they got back. Sleepy found Mary alone on
the front porch and told her what Pink said about being hit over the
head.
“And he thinks Bill McGill hit him,” laughed Sleepy. “Prob’ly walked
into a post in the dark. And he offered to bet that Bill took my horse
and Thursday’s saddle.”
Mary did not smile, and Sleepy noticed how serious she was.
“There might be some truth in it,” she said slowly.
“What do you mean? Ain’t Bill—”
“He’s gone, Sleepy.”
“Well, the danged horsethief! After all you’ve done—”
“That part is all right. If only he won’t get caught.”
“He sure won’t—if I get my hands on him first.”
“Don’t tell Thursday anything about it.”
“I shore won’t. Well, well! Bill McGill! You never can tell which way a
dill pickle is goin’ to squirt.”
* * * * *
It was about nine o’clock that night when Hashknife rode to Cinnabar and
dismounted at a vacant hitch-rack near a small saloon. Hashknife had
decided not to stay all night in the town, if the same man was in charge
of the hotel.
But there was a new proprietor. This one was stooped, rather gray, with
a hard face and cruel mouth. Hashknife inquired about the former
proprietor, and the man said that Matt Daley had left the country.
“I bought him out. Want a room?”
Hashknife nodded, and the man showed him a room on the second floor,
after which Hashknife stabled his own horse. He knew he was taking a
chance again, but was sure the new man did not suspect him of being the
one responsible for Matt Daley’s flight. Hashknife inspected the rest of
the main street, but saw no one he knew. In fact, there was hardly any
one around the town that evening.
He went up to his room, undressed and went to bed; but the building had
absorbed so much heat during the day that it was like a furnace, even
with the window open. The partitions were thin, the door warped so badly
that he could hear any sound from any part of the house.
A man came in and talked with the proprietor for awhile and was shown a
room across the hall near the stairway. Hashknife could not distinguish
any voices. Finally the proprietor went down the stairs, his boots
creaking an accompaniment to the groans of the stairs.
Hashknife kicked all the covers off and rolled a cigarette. From far off
came the bawling of a cow, answered by several more in chorus. He rubbed
the fire from his cigarette against the floor and tried to go to sleep.
He was just on the borderland of slumber when he heard more voices
downstairs, laughing and talking. He was wide awake now, as their voices
came clearly.
“Hello, Sims, you old son of a gun! Since when didja start runnin’ a
hotel?”
“Where’s old Matt?”
“He left here. Howdy, boys. What brings you over here?”
“None of your business. Have you seen Ed and Jack around here today?”
“Ain’t seen ’em for a week.”
“They was to meet us here tonight.”
Hashknife sat up, listening closely. Ed and Jack were the names of the
two cowboys who had tried to bilk Bill McGill in High Grade.
“How’re you fixed for somethin’ to eat, Sims?”
“Reckon I can fix you up a snack. Stayin’ with me tonight?”
“Damn’ right. Got stable room for three good horses?”
“Shore—plenty room. Go right ahead, and I’ll cook some steaks. How do
you like ’em?”
“Plenty dead,” laughed a voice. “Git us some bottle beer, will you?”
“Got plenty, but it ain’t awful cold.”
“All right.”
“Match you to see who puts up the broncs.”
“All right.”
The question was finally settled and one man went out, grumbling at his
bad luck. There were more cows bawling. Hashknife sat up and rolled
another cigarette. There were voices downstairs, but Hashknife could not
make out what was being said. From the kitchen came the rattling of
pans.
“Hello, waddies!” The voice evidently came from the front doorway.
“Hello, Jack! How are you, Eddie? Been lookin’ for you.”
“Hello, Sam. How’s tricks?”
That was Eddie and Jack, the two crooks from High Grade, decided
Hashknife. He recognized the whining voice of Eddie. There was a murmur,
and then came the voice of the man who had gone out to put up the
horses:
“Where’s Sims? Hey, Sims, c’mere.”
“He’s fryin’ steaks, you bat-eared—”
“Damn the steaks! C’mere, Sims.”
Sims came.
“Who owns that sorrel in the stable, Sims?”
“Oh, that one? Belongs to a feller who came here a while ago. He’s
upstairs asleep.”
The man dropped his voice, and there was a rumble of low pitched
conversation. Then:
“You’re allus seein’ boogers. Them fellers are in Willer Wells.”
“Don’t I know the brand?”
“Sh-h-h! Don’t yell. What room’s he in, Sims?”
“First one to the left of the stairs. What’s all this about?”
“Never mind. You cook them steaks.”
Hashknife was dressing swiftly now. He went to the open window and
looked out. He could see the stable in the moonlight. Sliding over the
sill, he stretched out to his full length and dropped. He struck
yielding sand, fell to his knees, got up quickly and went toward the
stable.
Stopping at the door, he looked toward the hotel, but no one was coming.
He stepped inside and scratched a match. In the first stall was Sleepy’s
sorrel. It was quite a shock to Hashknife to see that horse in Cinnabar,
but he quickly untied it, got his gray and led both outside. Off behind
the stable, possibly a hundred yards away, was a dense clump of
mesquite, and as quickly as possible he tied the two horses behind this
cover.
He had not waited to get the saddles. Accordingly, he went back and got
them. He noticed that it was not Sleepy’s rig, and wondered if he had
taken somebody else’s by mistake. He felt better now. If it came to a
case of getting away fast, he would not have to enter the stable.
* * * * *
He circled around to the right side of the hotel and found a flight of
stairs on the outside, leading to the second floor. He went up
cautiously and found the door unlocked. Taking off his boots, he went
slowly down the hallway to the door of his room, which he had locked
from the inside.
There seemed to be considerable commotion below, so he sneaked over to
the head of the stairs. There was the odor of cooking steaks and boiling
coffee.
“Where’d you git that horse? That’s what we want to know.”
“I do not know.”
Hashknife almost gasped aloud. It was the voice of Bill McGill.
“Don’t be so damn’ ignorant, tenderfoot. Remember me, don’tcha?”
“Yes, I believe I do.”
“Well, you’re worth a thousand dollars in Willer Wells, and we’re shore
goin’ to collect. Where have you been all this time?”
“That is my business, sir.”
“Don’t git sassy or I’ll bust your nose. I owe you that much.”
“Aw, let him alone.”
“Don’t make so much noise—” it was Sims’ voice. “I’ve got another
sleeper upstairs.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” The voice was angry. “Who is he?”
“I never seen him before.”
“What does he look like, Sims?”
They were talking cautiously now.
“Tall, skinny jasper, ridin’ a gray horse.”
“My Gawd!” blurted one of them.
“Sims, you danged fool! Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was busy cookin’ steaks and I didn’t think—”
There came a volley of whispers, and a man went out, evidently heading
for the stable.
“Damn the steaks!” said one man, loud enough for Hashknife to hear. “My
appetite has been ruined.”
The man came back, running, and panted softly—
“The sorrel is gone, and so is the gray, if the gray ever was there.”
“Heard us and got out.”
“See if he’s in his room.”
Hashknife stepped cautiously into Bill McGill’s room, which was in
darkness, and several men went down the hall to his room, where they
knocked boldly.
“Jumped out the winder,” grunted one. “Gimme a little help.” Hashknife
heard them throw their weight against the flimsy lock, which broke.
After a few moments they came back out, cursing Sims.
“Well, we’ve got that tenderfoot,” said one.
“Yeah, if that’s any satisfaction. I’m shore scared to go back now.”
“Aw, he didn’t see any of us.”
“How do you know?”
They went down the stairs, and Hashknife sneaked back to his own room.
He wanted to decide what to do next. It was true that he had not seen
any of the men, and he wondered why one of them should say he would be
afraid to go back. Was it any crime to come to Cinnabar, he wondered.
It was several minutes before he heard anything more, and then the men
were coming back up the stairs. He slid half out of the window, ready to
jump again if any of them came to his door; but they did not. He could
hear them plainly, now.
“He won’t get loose. When I tie ’em, they stay tied. Let’s eat.”
They tramped down the stairs again, and Hashknife went back to the hall.
The door of Bill’s room was open. Hashknife moved cautiously and he
found the boy tightly bound, lying on the bed. Hashknife pawed him over
until he found Bill’s head, and whispered softly:
“Keep your mouth shut, Bill. This is Hashknife.”
“Good evening,” said Bill weakly.
“Not so very good, but danged interestin’,” whispered Hashknife, as he
unfastened the ropes and helped the boy to his feet.
He cautioned Bill against making any noise, and they went out to the
back door and down the steps. They did not stop until they were out to
the horses. Bill sat down on the ground, while Hashknife squatted on his
heels.
“Go ahead and talk about it,” encouraged Hashknife. “What are you doin’
over here, and where didja get Sleepy’s horse?”
“I really don’t understand it all myself. I’ve really been muddled. I
think it was last night when something struck me.”
“An idea?”
“Not at all. I had been standing outside the dugout door, looking at the
moonlight, when I saw a man over near the stable. He seemed to be acting
rather queerly. He seemed to be trying to see without being seen. I