Mavericks
hitch-rack before the injured man became fully conscious. Even then he
was unable to talk, because of a cracked jawbone; but the old doctor
said he would be all right in a few days.
The sheriff went down to see him, but there was little visible of his
face on account of the bandages. The doctor explained his inability to
talk; so the sheriff produced a piece of paper and a pencil, which he
gave to the man.
“Is there anybody you want to notify?” he asked.
The man thought it over for awhile, and then printed the one word—
“No.”
“What is your name?”
The man studied the sheriff for a few moments, then wrote—
“Smith.”
The sheriff smiled, but said nothing.
“I’ve told him that his features have been practically wrecked,” said
the doctor.
The man nodded slowly and considered the interview at an end.
“I’ve got your money at my office,” the sheriff told him. “Ask for it
when you want it.”
Smith nodded.
“And don’t worry about the doctor’s bill. Steve Pelliser said he would
pay it, ’cause it was his horse that kicked you.”
The man looked keenly at Evans, but did not seem interested.
“The bill won’t bother anybody,” assured the doctor.
Scotty McGowan came for Jim’s body while the sheriff was there and told
him he was taking it to Newton, for shipment to Santa Dolores.
“And somebody is goin’ to pay for the killin’ of Jim,” he said.
“I’d drop that if I was you, Scotty.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Evans.”
“Well, I wouldn’t talk about it. I haven’t a thing against you, Scotty.
I always respect another man’s feelin’s as much as I can. And I’ll tell
you right now, Pink Lowry didn’t murder Jim. He didn’t even know who he
shot at. Jim shot first. It’s a cinch he did, because he couldn’t have
fired a shot after Pink shot him. And you know we dug Jim’s bullet out
of a corral post behind where Pink was standin’.”
Scotty smiled sourly.
“I didn’t threaten any certain person, did I?”
“You didn’t have to. Now, I’ve talked to you as man to man. If any harm
comes to Pink through you—Scotty, look out. That’s a warnin’. I doubt if
Pink could have killed Jim at that distance in daylight. Jim was the
best shot of the two—and he had first chance. My advice to you is to
drop it.”
“I’m through talkin’, Evans. How is the injured man?”
“Conscious, but can’t talk. Writes that his name is Smith.”
Scotty grinned.
“Smith? Well, it’s as good as any, I reckon.”
The sheriff went back uptown, dropped in at the bank where he found
Steve Pelliser talking with Edward Hart. He told them of his talk with
the wounded man, and of Scotty’s intention to ship Jim’s body back to
Santa Dolores.
“That’s where Jim’s wife is buried, I reckon,” said the sheriff.
“Must be almost a ghost town,” said Hart thoughtfully. “Never went
ahead, after the minin’ boom busted. You never hear anythin’ about it.”
Pelliser walked to the office with the sheriff. He seemed to have aged
quite a lot since the killing of Jim McGowan, and the sheriff wondered
if Pelliser felt that the trouble had started over Mary.
They sat down in the office, and in a little while Scotty went past with
the covered box in the bed of a lumber wagon, resting on some hay. He
turned his head and looked toward the office.
“Feels pretty sore about it,” said the sheriff.
Pelliser got up and walked the length of the office.
“Jim McGowan wanted to marry my girl,” he said. “He asked me that night,
and I refused him, Dud. He’s too old for Mary—was too old, I mean. He
had never said anythin’ to her. He got a little mad about it and said
she was of age and he’d do as he pleased; so I told him I’d do
everythin’ in my power to stop her from marryin’ him. She didn’t like
him.”
“Do you think he got sore at Pink because she danced first with him?”
Pelliser sat down, resting his chin on his hands.
“Dud, as I said before, Jim McGowan is the only man who could tell what
happened. The older I get, the more I believe in fate. It can make you
or break you. Queer things will happen.”
“That’s shore true. Jist look at that feller down in Doc’s office. He
rode in here, lookin’ like himself. _Pop!_ and he’s changed. Doc says
he’ll feel all right again, but will look like hell. The man knows it.
His eyes lied when he wrote ‘Smith’ on that piece of paper. Mebbe he’s
an outlaw—a murderer. Mebbe he’s glad his face is changed.”
“Did Scotty have much to say down there?”
“Mostly threats, Steve. Scotty ought to keep his tongue to himself, or
he’ll get in bad trouble. But you can’t reason with him. He seems so
positive that Jim was murdered.”
“He does?”
“Shore. Laughs at me when I explain that Pink didn’t murder him.”
Pelliser sighed and got to his feet.
“Ride out to see us, Dud. Tell Pink to come. Mary was afraid he might
not feel like comin’ out, after what happened. None of us blame him.”
“I’ll tell him. He went down to Newton to git a suit of clothes.”
Steve Pelliser smiled a little.
“Go ahead and laugh,” said the sheriff. “We didn’t know any better than
to wear them suits like we did.”
“Well, I didn’t see anythin’ wrong, except that they was kinda skimpy.”
“That was their main failin’,” laughed the sheriff. “I didn’t care, but
it got under Pink’s skin when McGowan laughed at him.”
“Mary was afraid Pink would think she was laughin’ at him; afraid that
he might blame her.”
“Oh, hell! If Mary had a trip rope on the sky and Pink saw her jerk it
down on his head, he wouldn’t blame _her_.”
“When you’re young you can feel that way, Dud.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Us old spavs see things different.”
The sheriff was barely thirty-five.
Pink came back from Newton with the new suit. It was as blue as a summer
sky and did not fit very well. There are very few alterations in
ready-made suits in small cow towns.
“I met Scotty,” he told the sheriff, “and I’ll be darned if he didn’t
nod and pass the time of day with me. I thought he was sore at me.”
“I told him to let you alone.”
Pink laughed heartily.
“What’s funny about it?” demanded the sheriff.
“Your influence over Scotty McGowan. Guess again, pardner.”
“Well, I _did_ tell him.”
“Thanks, Dud.”
“You’re welcome. Didja know that Jim McGowan asked Steve to let him
marry his daughter?”
“Huh? When didja hear that?”
“Little while ago. I reckon Jim and Steve kinda had a run-in at the
party that night. Oh, not a scrap, but just a few words.”
“Oh!” grunted Pink. “No, I didn’t know it.”
“What didja find out about that O Box H horse?”
“He bought it at the livery stable. I talked with the stableman, but
wasn’t able to describe this man. Didn’t know his name, either. Said the
man didn’t ask for a bill of sale; so he don’t know what his name is. I
kinda inquired around, but I didn’t have no luck. How is the man?”
The sheriff explained about the conversation.
“Well, mebbe his name _is_ Smith,” said Pink. “Anyway, it gives him a
name. How do you think I’ll look in that blue suit, Dud?”
“Fine—” warmly. “Git yourself a white shirt to wear with it.”
“Why?”
“Hurrah for the pink, white and blue!”
* * * * *
Cinnabar was little more of a town than High Grade. Perhaps there were
two or three more buildings, and the saloon
was a little larger, a little dingier. Most of the towns along this road
were mere relics of the days when big strikes were being made through
that part of the country; but the mines had died out and there was
little to support these towns, except scattered cattle ranches.
Hashknife, Sleepy and Bill McGill put up at the only hotel in the place
and inquired around as to the best route to Willow Valley.
“There’s an old road runnin’ east from here,” explained the whiskered
proprietor of the hotel. “It ain’t very plain no more, and nobody ever
uses it, except mebbe a prospector. Never was no great shake of a road,
as far as that goes, but it’s marked. You can git into Willer Valley
that way, or you can swing plumb around to Newton, thataway. But it’s a
long ways.”
As near as the man could estimate, it was somewhere between twenty-five
and fifty miles from Cinnabar to Willow Wells, which he explained was
the main town in the Valley.
Hashknife and Sleepy talked it over with Bill McGill, who decided that
he would attempt the old road. Hashknife managed to talk the proprietor
out of an old war-bag, which he turned over to Bill, with instructions
to leave his suitcase at the hotel.
“You’d be a nervous wreck, packin’ that valise,” Hashknife explained.
“And what’s more, it would make you legal prey for every joker in the
State.”
Bill McGill was grateful. He stuck like a leech to Hashknife during the
rest of the day and evening. Hashknife had explained to Bill that he and
Sleepy were heading northeast into Wyoming to look over some cattle
country, with the intention possibly of homesteading some land.
They were up fairly early the next morning, and Bill insisted on paying
their room rent and breakfast. Bill left his war-sack in front of the
hotel and went to get his horse, while Hashknife and Sleepy sprawled in
the shade and smoked an after-breakfast cigarette.
Bill came back in a few minutes, a perplexed expression on his face.
“Am I all turned around here?” he asked Hashknife. “I thought we left
the horses in that little stable behind the hotel.”
Hashknife shut one eye and considered Bill quizzically.
“That’s where we left ’em,” said Sleepy.
“I was sure we did, but they are not there now.”
The two cowboys got up quickly and went around to the stable. Their
saddles were hanging on their pegs, but there was not a horse in the
stable. They went outside and looked around. The hotel proprietor came
from the rear door of the hotel and they called him over, explaining
that their horses were missing.
“Can you imagine that?” he grunted. “All three gone! First time in
weeks, I tell you. Hm-m-m-m. Kinda puts you on foot, eh?”
“It shore does look thataway,” admitted Hashknife. “I don’t suppose,
there’s any extra horses around here either.”
“I dunno but we might be able to dig up two or three. Want to buy?”
“I’d rather rent ’em. You see, I expect to git my horse back.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah. Well, I wouldn’t rent nobody a horse.”
He went back to the hotel, leaving them to think it over.
“Our friend came in from High Grade and got even with us,” said Sleepy.
“We should have looked out for him, Hashknife.”
Hashknife nodded absently. The loss of that tall gray horse was a
serious thing. He had owned Ghost a long time; the best horse he had
ever ridden, and he had ridden a lot of horses. He eyed Bill McGill
thoughtfully.
“How much money have you got, Bill?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a little over five hundred dollars.”
“Uh-huh. Didja ever do any gamblin’?”
“No, I never have gambled. Oh, perhaps small bets on the campus.”
“This is a long shot. C’mon and let’s talk horses with the hotel man.”
They found the bewhiskered proprietor on the front porch, sweeping.
“You spoke about sellin’ us some horses,” said Hashknife.
“Oh, yeah. Well—” thoughtfully—“I’ve got a few _good_ horses.”
“How good?”
“Hundred and fifty dollars apiece.”
Sleepy started to laugh, but looked at Hashknife and stifled the
impulse. Horses were worth about twenty-five dollars apiece, average.
“Kinda high, ain’tcha, pardner?” asked Hashknife easily.
“These are good horses.”
“Let’s take a look at ’em.”
The man led the way down to his home stable and corral, where he pointed
out six horses in the corral.
“Take your pick, at that price,” he said.
There was not a single horse in the corral worth twenty-five dollars.
Sleepy snorted indignantly, but Hashknife looked them over.
“All broke animals?” asked Hashknife.
“Oh, shore.”