Mavericks
“Hashknife,” he said softly, “I don’t know what to say. Man, you’ve—”
“That’s all right, Steve. Everythin’ is cleared up.”
“Cleared up? Man, the weight of the world is off my shoulders. If I get
that Diamond R ranch, won’t you run it for me? I need you both.”
“I’d like to, Steve, but it ain’t in us to stay still very long. We’ve
both been wonderin’ what’s on the other side of the hill. Take care of
Bill McGill. He’s all right—jist ignorant from ingrown education. See
you later.”
* * * * *
They rode away, knee to knee, heading down the moonlit road over which
they had ridden so furiously.
“Funny case, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Had me whipped for a long time. I
went to work on the theory that Pink didn’t kill McGowan. I studied it a
long time, and this is how I figured it out. McGowan wanted to marry
Mary Pelliser. Steve kicked. They were down near the stable that night
when McGowan told Steve he knew he was one of the men who helped Spike
Neal rob that stage. It meant that Steve was in McGowan’s power. Steve
shot McGowan. They shot together, Steve’s body maskin’ the flash of his
own gun from Pink, who was in line with ’em.
“Pink’s shot never hit anythin’. The Chinaman saw three flashes. He
didn’t admit it, but I knew danged well he saw ’em. Pelliser loves Mary,
and he’d fight to keep her from knowin’ that she wasn’t his daughter. As
soon as I worked out that theory—of course, I didn’t know what McGowan
had on Pelliser—I went to work on the killin’ of Hart. Bill McGill was
out of the question. He fell down and accidentally fired that shot.
“I knew that one man turned Bill loose ahead of the lynchers, and my job
was to puzzle out who that one man might be. It was somebody who knew of
the proposed lynchin’, and I figured Scotty was in on that deal. Then
came the bank robbery. One masked man. The letter Bill McGill had was
signed Ed. That was the name of Hart, who was murdered.
“Caliente Smith told me about the stage robbery near Santa Dolores, in
which one man was shot and the rest got away. Then came the deal of the
misbranded calf, the misbranded cows, and Steve Pelliser provin’ an
alibi for Scotty McGowan.
“You see, the murder of Hart looked like a grudge proposition. He didn’t
have any enemies in the Valley. Hart and Pelliser had been pardners for
years. They fitted in nice. I didn’t know where the two kids came in,
but it seems that Neal intrusted them to Hart and Pelliser. I had to
have a man who hated both Steve and Ed Hart. Smith was the only
stranger, so I kinda looked him over. Nobody would recognize him with
that face. He came here to kill both men, but that kickin’ kinda delayed
the deal.
“The telegram made me more sure that Smith was Neal. I circulated the
report that Jack Erb had told a few things, and watched to see how
Scotty took the news. Well, he headed straight for Pelliser—to demand
protection in case Erb told too many things. He figured that only Steve
and Mary were at the ranch, and it was a good time to talk with Steve.
And when Smith, or Neal, followed him real quick, I figured that there
would be somethin’ doin’ at the Pelliser ranch.”
“And Smith was jist a locoed nut, who shot Scotty McGowan, ’cause Scotty
reached for a gun; and then tried to kill Steve, ’cause Steve’s horse
kicked him that night,” said Sleepy.
“That’s right. Fact is stranger than fiction, don’tcha think?”
“It shore is in this case. Man, that was a snappy finish.”
They rode into the town and found the sheriff at his office. He had been
looking for them. In a few words Hashknife told him what had happened at
the Pelliser ranch, and Evans almost fell out of his chair.
“Smith confessed to the murder of Hart and robbin’ the bank before he
died? Can you beat that? And he killed Scotty McGowan? My golly, that’s
shore a shock. Say! I better get the coroner and pile out there as fast
as I can. Will you tell Scotty’s gang?”
“Shore. You can go right ahead, Dud.”
The sheriff ran for the stable while Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the
street to the War Paint, where everything was in full swing. Buck
Haskell was at the bar, talking with Barney East, as Hashknife came up
to him.
Buck looked him over suspiciously, but Hashknife’s slow smile was
reassuring. He said softly:
“Haskell, get your other two men and meet me outside. I’ve got some news
that might interest you all.”
“What do you mean?” asked Haskell tensely, while Barney shifted his
right arm a little.
“Just a little news you might like to know ahead of time.”
Buck looked straight at Hashknife, but the level gray eyes never
shifted.
“Get ’em, Barney,” said Buck softly.
Sam Hall was playing twenty-one and Nick Lee was watching the whirring
roulette; but they followed Barney East, suspiciously, wonderingly, and
the six men walked a short distance away from the front door.
“Scarface Smith killed Scotty McGowan at the Pelliser ranch less than an
hour ago,” said Hashknife. “The sheriff and coroner are headin’ that way
right now. Smith talked a little before he died. I’m tellin’ you this
for what it’s worth and before too many folks know about it. It’s none
of my business, but if I was you, boys, I’d see that Willow Wells was a
long, long ways behind me by this time tomorrow night.”
The four men said nothing for several moments. Finally Buck Haskell
spoke softly:
“Is this on the square, Hartley? Did Smith kill Scotty?”
“They’re both dead, Haskell.”
“That’s a square deal on your part,” said Barney East. “I’m not lookin’
for anybody to prove anythin’ to me. Thank you.”
“Same here,” nodded Lee. “I’ve been here too long, anyway.”
Silently they turned, went to the hitch-rack, mounted their horses and
rode down the street.
“Undesirable citizens,” said Hashknife. “We couldn’t pin anythin’ on
’em; so I decided to scare ’em out of the country.”
They crossed the street, heading for the sheriff’s office, where their
horses were tied; but a single-rig, with one man in it, drew up in front
of a general merchandise store and they crossed over to see who it was.
The man was rather short, stout, with a Semitic cast of countenance; he
wore a derby hat.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “My, that is a dusty trip. I came
from Newton. Stine is my name. I represent Nathan and Stine, makers of
first class men’s clothing. I come ever so often to here because my
headquarters are in Phoenix. I make clothes to your order cheaper—”
“Oh, yes,” said Hashknife pleasantly. “You’ve been here before?”
“Certainly. Last time I sold suits to the sheriff and his deputy.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah. Here’s a tip, Mr. Stine. The deputy is goin’ to get
married in a few days and I know danged well—say, he’s been wantin’ to
see you ever since he got his last suit.”
“Fine! He spoke about my goods, eh? Can’t I see you boys tomorrow?”
“All depends on where you are,” grinned Hashknife.
They went on to the little hitch-rack, where they climbed on their
horses and rode back to the hotel to pay their bill and get their
war-bags. As they came from the hotel they met Stine.
“I’ve got some nice fast colors in new weaves,” he said hopefully.
“You’ll need ’em, when you meet that deputy,” said Hashknife. “The
faster the better.”
Five minutes later the lights of Willow Wells had faded out as they
headed westward, riding knee to knee through the fragrant sage. The moon
shone down, silvering the points of the distant ranges.
“I wonder what we’ll find over there,” said Sleepy.
“More hills, I suppose.”
“That’s great.”
And so they passed from the Valley as quietly as they had come. Their
work was completed and they were going over the hill, leaving Willow
Wells to work out its own salvation, and to wonder what became of them.
As Pink said, two weeks later—
“Dud, you can stand up with me and Mary, but don’t kid yourself—the best
man pulled out of here _that_ night.”
The sheriff nodded slowly.
“Queer feller, that Hashknife Hartley. Never told much. I’m still
wonderin’ about that telegram and what a man named Neal had to do with
it. Why did every one of the Diamond R punchers disappear? Why did a
bunch of men take Bill McGill out of jail and not lynch him? When you
come right down to it, I don’t know much.”
“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you ever since I’ve knowed you,
Dud. I’m with you, as far as that goes. But where ignorance is bliss,
why git all het up. The only thing that worries me now—will Stine git
that new suit to me in time? I swore I’d kill him if he ever came back
to this town, but I felt so happy over the way things broke, I almost
hugged him. Me and Mary are goin’ to run the Diamond R, and you’ll have
to hire a new deputy.”
“Yeah, and you told Bill McGill to apply for the job! That maverick!”
“What didja tell him, Dud?”
“What did I tell him?” snorted the sheriff. “I told him he didn’t have
brains enough to come in out of the rain. And he said there was very
little rain in this part of Arizona, and as far as being ignorant was
concerned, did Mr. Lowry have any brains?”
“And then what did you say?” asked Pink, grinning.
“Well, I said a deputy had to be able to smoke cigarettes and cuss a
little, and the son of a gun pulled out the makin’s and—who learned that
maverick to cuss?”
Pink threw back his head and laughed heartily.
“And then what, Dud?”
“I gave him the job.”
[Transcriber’s Note:
This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, December 15, 1929 and in the
subsequent three issues. It is believed to be in the public domain
in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]