Mavericks
distinctly saw him sneak up and peer through the window of the
bunkhouse, where I could hear someone playing a string instrument.
“The man went from there almost to the house, but at that moment someone
came out on the front porch, and the man came back to the stable. He
seemed to be carrying a gun—a rifle, perhaps. Then one of the boys came
from the bunkhouse and went to the stable. I rather lost track of this
other man, as he had disappeared in the shadow.
“I came out a little farther, but could not see him; so I sat down on
the ground for awhile. The other man went back from the stable and
entered the bunkhouse. Finally I got up, turned to go back into the
dugout, and the man was right behind me, his face in the shadow. He
asked me who I was and I—I—”
“You said William Allen McGill.”
“Oh, no. I said Bill McGill. And he struck me with something. If it were
light enough I would let you look at my head. I’m afraid the swelling
will never go down.
“The next thing I knew, I found myself tied to a saddle. Really, I was
so sick I could hardly hold up my head, but I could not fall off because
of the ropes. It seemed as though I rode for hours and hours before we
stopped. It was still dark, but the man had a cloth over his face. He
untied me and let me off the horse. I sank right down on the ground and
I never was so grateful for anything in my life.
“He said to me, ‘It will soon be daylight. You get on your horse and
follow this road and don’t never come back here again.’ He called me
names that will not bear repeating, but I was too sick to resent them. I
did not get on my horse at daylight. I tied the animal to a bush,
stretched out and stayed there nearly all day.
“It was almost night when I finally mounted the horse again, and within
an hour I was here. I remembered the place, but I was too miserable,
hungry and worried to care what place it was. The man gave me some
canned beans, bread and coffee. Then I went to bed. I suppose you know
the rest.”
“Did you recognize any of the men who roped you in there?”
“Just one—the man who arrested me in High Grade.”
“Nick Lee of the Diamond R, eh?”
“Yes. They were going to take me back to Willow Wells and get the
reward.”
“What are they doin’ over here?”
“I asked Mr. Lee that identical question, and he slapped me across the
mouth. Some day I shall—”
“Better let it out on shares, Bill. Lee’s a salty gent.”
Hashknife untied the horses and they both mounted. As far as they could
see, everything was serene at the hotel; but Hashknife knew the gang
would be rather excited to find that their captive was not where they
left him. They traveled north out of town for a short distance, and then
cut across to the east to strike the old road to Willow Wells, but found
their way blocked by a barbed wire fence. Investigating as well as he
could in the dark, by riding along the fence, Hashknife decided that the
wire enclosed about twenty acres of land, and that there was an opening
on the east side, guarded only by three long poles.
Cows bawled softly. Hashknife could make out several dark shapes.
Leaving Bill outside the bars, Hashknife rode in and moved among the
cattle. The light was very bad, but the cowboy estimated that there were
at least a hundred head within that enclosure. He slowly herded some of
them into a corner, where he leaned as close as possible and scratched a
match.
A wild-eyed steer moved back, not over five feet away, and by the light
of the match Hashknife plainly saw a six pointed star vent brand on its
left shoulder and a Diamond R on its left hip. Both brands were fresh.
Hashknife knew now what it was all about. The Diamond R was stealing
cattle in Willow Valley and bringing them over to Cinnabar to Ed Reese
and Jack Erb for disposal. This would give the Diamond R boys a chance
to get back to their ranch before morning.
Hashknife rode back to the bars, pondering deeply. There were at least
three of the Diamond R—Ed Reese, Jack Erb, and the man Sims, who owned
the hotel. Sims would naturally side with his friends. Hashknife knew
that Bill McGill would be of no assistance to him, and he did not feel
like tackling five men single-handed. By this time they would have
discovered the loss of their thousand dollars’ worth of prisoner and be
on guard.
“We’re goin’ back to the Pelliser ranch,” he told Bill. “I don’t like
fightin’ with cattle rustlers in the dark, so we’ll hightail it for
home. We’ll get back there about four o’clock in the mornin’, if we can
keep on that old road in the dark. If them clouds break away and give us
some moonlight, we’ll make it earlier. C’mon.”
“I shall be pleased to get back,” said Bill. “I don’t know what Mary
thinks of me, going away without even saying goodby. But really, I had
nothing to say about the matter. I hope she will understand.”
“Leave it to Mary. She’s got a lot of _sabe_ for a girl.”
“I don’t know what that word means, but she is wonderful.”
“Means the same thing. You give that bronc his head and he’ll stick to
the trail. All you have to do is set there and ride.”
“And that,” said Bill painfully, “is quite enough to keep me out of
mischief.”
CHAPTER XVI — PINK GOES CALLING
Pink Lowry came out that evening. Perhaps he came to gloat over what
Bill McGill had done to his erstwhile friends. Pink had forgiven Bill
the wallop over the head. He was willing to forgive Bill anything, as
long as he stayed out of Willow Valley.
Mary was a little sad over the whole affair, but tried to hide it. She
and Sleepy had discussed Bill, and Sleepy greatly desired Bill’s scalp
for stealing his horse. He also desired Bill’s scalp for betraying
Mary’s friendship. As far as Pink’s sore head was concerned—Sleepy had
no interest in Pink Lowry.
“Dad says he will give you another horse,” Mary told him.
“Yeah, I know all about that. It’s shore square of him, but I like that
sorrel bronc. I hate to be stolen from by a tenderfoot.”
Pink and Mary talked about Bill after her father went to bed. Steve was
just a trifle curious as to why Pink came out there two nights in
succession, and had stopped at the head of the stairs. He liked Pink,
and he was not going to interfere with any love making, but he stopped
long enough to hear Pink say:
“Well, my head is pretty sore, Mary, but what makes me more sore than
the busted head is the fact that he throwed you down.”
“You have to make allowances for Bill,” said Mary. “He’s not like the
men out here. He doesn’t think the way we do. My opinion is that Bill
got so frightened he had to leave, and he didn’t stop to consider the
ethics of the case at all. He likes Sleepy, and I’m sure there was
nothing malicious about his taking Sleepy’s horse. Hashknife had a long
talk with Bill, and he frightened Bill.”
“That’s all right,” grinned Pink, “but there _was_ somethin’ malicious
about the way he slapped me over the head in the stable.”
“Another case of fright. You surprised him when he was taking the
horse.”
“Well, he shore surprised me.”
Steve went to his room, where he sat down to puzzle it out. Now he knew
Mary, Pink, Hashknife and Sleepy had been hiding Bill McGill somewhere
on the ranch. Bill had struck Pink over the head, taken Sleepy’s horse
and Thursday’s saddle. Thursday probably did not know anything about it.
That is, he had no hand in the affair. But why were they hiding Bill?
There was a thousand dollar reward for Bill, and Pink Lowry, the deputy
sheriff, was helping to shield him. He wondered what it was all about.
He smoked in his room until he heard Pink leave, and then went down the
stairs to meet Mary. She seemed greatly surprised to see him. He did not
beat around the bush at all, but came right to the point. Mary turned a
little white, but was rather defiant.
“He—he came out here that night,” she said. “Hashknife was with me, and
we—he knew they’d hang Bill. We hid him in the dugout, where he has been
ever since. Hashknife—”
“Hashknife was at the bottom of it, eh?”
“Do you want to see Bill McGill hanged, Dad?”
Steve’s face was very grim, but he shook his head negatively. Then—
“You ain’t stuck on Bill McGill, are you, Mary?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“He’s stuck on you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, couldn’t I see it? When he looks at you he looks like a bogged
calf. I’m not blind. So he’s gone, eh? Stole a horse and a saddle, did
he? Hm-m-m. Well, I’ll gladly replace the horse and saddle, if he’ll
never come back.”
“But, Dad, they’ll catch and hang him.”
“He’s nothing to you, is he?”
“Well, I don’t want to see him hanged. Hashknife says—”
“Oh, dang Hashknife! Where is he?”
“You know as much as I do.”
“I suppose I do. When he shows up I’m goin’ to fire him. There’s been
nothin’ but trouble around here since he came. I’ll fire Sleepy and him
and hire a couple of ignorant cowboys.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m goin’ to, just the same. You go to bed, Mary.”
It was about four o’clock in the morning when Hashknife and Bill reached
the ranch. Bill went back to his dugout, and Hashknife, rather than
disturb the boys in the bunkhouse, climbed up into the hay loft and went
to sleep. And it was Thursday who discovered the return of Sleepy’s
sorrel. He went whooping around to the bunkhouse and yelled the news.
Steve was on the back porch; he came down to the stable.
“That’s my sorrel all right,” declared Sleepy. “And there’s Hashknife’s
gray!”
“That’s right,” snorted Sid Brayton. “But where on earth did _that_
saddle come from?”
“Who wants to know?” grunted Hashknife, peering down through the hayhole
in the stable ceiling.
“C’mon down here and talk about it,” laughed Sleepy; and Hashknife came
down to them.
He looked keenly at Steve, wishing him far away from there just at that
time.
“Hyah, boys,” he said. “How’s everythin’ around here?”
“Where in the world didja find my horse and that saddle?”
“Oh, yea-a-ah.” Hashknife rubbed his nose and looked at the saddle. It
was well made, nicely stamped, and had only been broken in.
“My saddle’s missin’,” said Thursday, “and that shore ain’t mine.”
“It shore ain’t,” agreed Sid heartily. “Yours was an old kack, while
this’n’s a reg’lar hull.”
“I’d like to talk with you alone, Hartley,” said Steve.
“Oh, shore.” Hashknife nodded and they walked around to the corral.
“Where did you find Sleepy’s horse?” asked Steve.
“Cinnabar.”
“Found Bill McGill, too, eh?”
Hashknife simulated surprise.
“I found the sorrel and a saddle. It was too dark, and I was in too much
of a hurry to examine the saddle.”
“Yeah? What were you doin’ in Cinnabar?”
“Comin’ back through there from Santa Dolores.”
“Santa Dolores, eh?” Steve picked at a splinter on the fence. “What’s
the idea of goin’ to Santa Dolores?”
“Didja ever do any trailin’ with hounds, Steve?”
“No, I never did.”
“Well, if you ever do, and you lose the trail, try back. I’m tryin’ a
long ways back to pick up a cold trail. And I want to tell you somethin’
more; there was at least three Diamond R punchers at Cinnabar, and
inside a twenty-acre wire fenced patch there was at least a hundred
steers wearin’ a six-pointed star vent on their left shoulders.”
Steve’s face went black and he walked several yards away from Hashknife,
his hands clenched. Coming back, he leaned against the fence, his eyes
half closed.
“A hundred head, eh? How could they get away with a deal like that?”
“Bunch ’em at this side of the hills, take ’em through in less than a
day, turn ’em over to men on that side and get back here before
mornin’.”
“Did you _see_ any of those men?”
“Nope. I only heard their voices and somethin’ of what they said.”
“But you didn’t see any of ’em?”
“I did not.”
“Can you swear they were SP cattle and that the Diamond R took them