|
A long, dusty freight train rattled and clanked through the desert hills, seemingly in no hurry to anywhere. Outside it was almost dark, and there were no lights inside the caboose, where Hashknife Hartley sprawled on an uncomfortable seat and gazed wearily through a dusty window. Across the aisle was Hashknife’s partner, Sleepy Stevens, stretched out on the seat, his head pillowed on his war-sack.
Hashknife was inches over six feet tall, of slender, steel-muscled manhood, his sombrero pulled low over his gray eyes. Sleepy Stevens was less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder and beam, slightly bow-legged. Sleepy had a grin-wrinkled face, wide mouth and innocent-looking blue eyes, which seemed amazed at the world.
In garb they were merely a pair of drifting cowboys; well-worn Stetsons, colorless shirts, stringy vests, little more than a depository for tobacco and papers, faded overalls and high-heel boots. There was nothing fancy about these two cowpokes. Their gun-belts were home-made, form-fitted by wear, and even their Colt guns, tucked into short holsters, had plain wooden butts, blackened by wear.
A sleepy-eyed brakeman climbed down from the cupola and wiped a grimy forearm across his dusty eyes and lighted his lantern. He said, “We’re pullin’ into Northgate, boys.”
Sleepy swung around on the seat, yawned widely and picked up his war-sack. The train was slowing down, as they came out on the platform. Each one of them picked up a heavy saddle and stepped down. There were few lights in Northgate, the railroad point for all of the Dancing Devil range.
There were huge loading corrals along the tracks, indicating that much livestock was shipped from Northgate. The train stopped, with the caboose close to the depot, and the two men swung down. The conductor crossed in front of them, going into the depot, where a kerosene lamp yellow-lighted the windows. A man came from the near corner of the depot, walking swiftly toward the rear platform of the caboose.
He had just reached the steps and was about to enter the caboose, when a shotgun blasted from down behind the loading platform. The man twisted around, tried to grasp the doorway, but missed, and went backwards off the platform, falling in the middle of the tracks behind the caboose.
Hashknife and Sleepy dropped their impedimenta and ran over to the caboose. There was no sign of the shooter. The conductor, depot-agent and a brakeman came running. They picked the man up and placed him on the platform while Hashknife told them where the shot came from. There was no one in sight. The victim had stopped a dozen buckshot, and was beyond any medical assistance.
There was no law officer in Northgate, the sheriffs office being at Tomahawk Flats, thirty miles south, center of the Dancing Devil range. Someone summoned a doctor, and other curious people arrived. A cowboy said, “I know who he is—he’s Oren Blakely. I think he worked for the Circle H, down at Tomahawk Flats.”
Hashknife and Sleepy secured a room at a little hotel, and, after considerable haggling, bought two horses from the man who owned the livery-stable and feed corral. They told him they were leaving for Tomahawk Flats in the morning. He said, “if yo’re lookin’ for work down there—”
“What about it?” asked Hashknife quickly.
“I just meant that they prob’ly ain’t lookin’ for cowpokes. Yuh see, the bank went busted and that busted most of the cowmen, makin’ things kinda bad down there. If a feller was lookin’ for work— But that’s yore business.”
“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, but he didn’t say whether it was for the advice or the information.
Over at the hotel they heard a man say that they had sent for the sheriff and the coroner. Another man said, “It ain’t goin’ to be a very merry Christmas down there this year.”
In their little room, Hashknife sprawled on the bed, smoking a cigarette, while Sleepy looked moodily from a dusty window. Sleepy said, “I just hope we ain’t playin’ Sandy Claws for Bob Marsh.”
Hashknife laughed shortly. “Where’d yuh get that idea?”
Sleepy sat down and began manufacturing a cigarette.
“Distrust of Bob Marsh,” he replied. “Bob sets there at his desk, his big, brown eyes as full of honesty as a coyote pup is full of fleas, and explains that all on earth he wants us to do is come down here, get the best possible price on three, four cattle spreads, and let him know.”
“Well?” suggested Hashknife curiously.
“That’s all we’ve got to do,” sighed Sleepy. “No rustlers, no horse-thieves—just a couple real estate men on horseback.”
“Sounds all right to me,” said Hashknife. “We get paid so much for the job, and if the deals go through we get more money. It’s an honest job, Sleepy. Bob Marsh, as secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, can’t afford to be mixed up in a crooked deal.”
“Yeah, I know but—well, a man was murdered tonight.”
“Men,” remarked Hashknife quietly, “are murdered every day.”
“Yeah, I know, but—you heard that man at the livery-stable, sayin’ that everybody in the Dancin’ Devil country are broke. The bank went busted—”
“Are you lookin’ for boogers, Sleepy?”
“No, I’m tryin’ to figure out why Bob Marsh got us down here. If he can’t get us into trouble one way, he’ll—well, all right.”
“I’ve just thought of somethin’ else,” said Hashknife soberly. Sleepy looked sharply at him and said, “Yeah? What?”
“It ain’t long until Christmas, pardner.”
“I heard that mentioned tonight, High Pockets. Christmas! Heat and dust. Yuh know, I’d like to spend a Christmas in the snow agin, Hashknife. It ain’t Christmas down here, except on the calendar. We had real Christmases in Idaho.”
“We had ’em in Montana, too,” said Hashknife. “My old man, bein’ a range preacher, was strong for things like that. I ’member the church trees decorated with popcorn in strings, popcorn balls, and little, red sacks of mosquito-nettin’, full of hard candy, with a tired-lookin’ orange in the bottom. They’d read telegrams from Santa Claus, showin’ that he was comin’—and then he’d come, all in a bear-skin coat, sleigh-bells, whiskers—”
“Bringin’ a pair of skates for little Hashknife,” suggested Sleepy.
“They called me Henry,” smiled Hashknife, “but I never got any skates. A range preacher didn’t make money enough—and we had a whopper of a family. We was poor folks, Sleepy.”
“Poor folks in Tomahawk Flats, too, they say. Be a bad Christmas down there—and we’re goin’ down to try and buy ’em out as cheap as possible.”
Hashknife nodded slowly. “That’s life, Sleepy.”
“It’s a tough life for busted folks. Yuh know,” Sleepy began rolling a cigarette, “I’ll bet yuh a dollar agin a doughnut that we don’t buy any spreads.”
“Anythin’ to base that bet on?”
“Bob Marsh. Listen, tall-feller; Bob Marsh used that as an excuse, or my original name ain’t Stevens. He wanted us to come here and let Nature take her course. Yuh can’t fool me, feller; I’m wise to Bob Marsh. No, I don’t say that Bob’s crooked, but he’s allus been a connivin’ critter.”
“He told the idea as straight as a string, Sleepy.”
“And here we are,” added Sleepy. “We get off the train—and what happens? A man is blasted down with a load of buckshot, that’s what happened. He poked cows for one of them poverty-stricken outfits at Tomahawk Flats.”
Hashknife grinned. “A coincidence, Sleepy. Prob’ly a grudge between two men—nothin’ to do with us.”
“No? Nothin’ t’ do with us, sez he. Huh! And yore long nose has been wigglin’ and sniffin’, like the nose of a bloodhound, ever since that poor devil done a hooligan off the end of that caboose. Nothin’ to do with us, eh? Let’s go to bed, before yuh get me all riled up.”
Hashknife laughed. It was like Sleepy to complain of things that might happen. They had been together a long time, these two drifting cowboys, always trying to find out what was going on over the next hill, only working long enough to suffice for their few wants, and then going on, always looking, helping some under-dog, asking nothing for themselves.
Hashknife, with his ability to solve range mysteries, could have sold his services to the law, and made money. But neither law nor money meant anything to them. They had seen the law miscarry too often. They loved justice—which is not necessarily law. At rare times they worked for the Cattlemen’s Association, asking only that they be given a free hand and not be hampered by rules. But neither of them enjoyed nor appreciated the work. Bob Marsh would have almost given his right hand to have them work for his organization. In fact, he used every sort of ruse to get them on certain jobs, knowing that Hashknife, confronted by a problem, would never give up, until it was solved. That was why Sleepy mistrusted Bob Marsh’s casual suggestion that they make some money for themselves by asking prices on some cattle ranches.
They found the depot-agent in the little restaurant next morning, eating breakfast with Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, and his deputy, Frenchy Arnett. The agent recognized them, and told the sheriff that these were the two men who had just arrived on the freight train, and were present when Oren Blakely was shot. Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and sat down at their table. He was unable to tell them any more than they already knew about the shooting.
Nick McGarvin was a big, two-fisted sort of person, and Hashknife mentally listed him as a much better man with his fists or gun than with his brains. Frenchy Arnett was small, dark, hatchet-faced, with a sour disposition and need of sleep. The agent went back to the depot, and the sheriff remarked:
“You two came in on the freight, packin’ saddles, bought two broncs from the feed-corral, and said you was headin’ for Tomahawk Flats tomorrow morning—that bein’ today.”
“The corral man told yuh,” said Hashknife. “Did he also tell yuh what else we said?”
“No, he didn’t. What else did yuh say?”
“I don’t remember,” replied Hashknife. “It was prob’ly just as important as what he told yuh.”
The sheriff nodded, but Frenchy grinned and looked sideways at the sheriff. Frenchy said, “It’s allus best to write it out. Things like that require study.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” asked the sheriff.
“Nothin’, Nick.”
“Tells us some more about us,” suggested Sleepy soberly. “It’s shore interestin’.”
“We don’t know any more,” replied the sheriff. “It’s my duty to know things.”
“Yuh mean—findin’ out about everybody’s deep, dark past?” asked Sleepy.
“Askin’,” corrected Frenchy. “Nick’s good at it.”
“Any idea who shot the man, Sheriff?” asked Hashknife.
“No. He’s worked for the Circle H for over a year, and I ain’t never knowed him to have trouble with anybody. ’Course, I’ll have to check up with Sam Hack—he owns the Circle H. Sam might know who Oren was feudin’ with—I dunno.”
They finished breakfast, and Hashknife and Sleepy decided to ride to Tomahawk Flats with the two officers, who had, so far, failed to find out why Hashknife and Sleepy were going there. As they were saddling at the livery-stable, a rider, on a very tired horse, swung off the street and into the stable:
The sheriff said, “Hello, Jim.”
Jim Bailey swung off his saddle and came over close to the sheriff. He said, “Nick, I got here as quick as I could. Somebody shot and killed Chiquita Morales last night!”
The big sheriff stared at Jim Bailey, while Frenchy Arnett said, “Aw, Gawd, they didn’t do that, Jim!”
Bailey nodded grimly. “She musta been in town, Frenchy—in a buggy. They tied the horse about a mile out of town and shot her.”
Hashknife did not ask any questions as the sheriff said wearily, “We’re headin’ home right now, Jim. Doc Miles left about three o’clock with the body of Oren Blakely.”
“It’s shore gettin’ to be a awful tough country,” sighed Jim Bailey. “She was settin’ there in the buggy—”
“Shut up!” snapped Frenchy sharply. He dropped his reins and walked over to the big, sliding doors, where he stood, staring out at the street. Jim Bailey shook his head.
“Chiquita was Frenchy’s sweetheart,” whispered the sheriff.
“That’s what he thought—mebbe,” said Bailey.
Bailey and Frenchy rode ahead, leaving the sheriff to ride with Hashknife and Sleepy.
“We heard that the bank went busted in Tomahawk Flats,” remarked Hashknife.
“Robbed,” corrected the sheriff. “Three men.”
“Cleaned it out, eh?”
“Nothin’ left—and it busted a lot of folks. Yuh see, Thomas Colton owned the bank—the Cattleman’s Independent Bank. Old Ed Weed was the cashier. It was a good bank, too, with plenty cash. Tom Colton is a fine feller—everybody liked him. He played square with everybody—never hounded ’em on mortgages and all that.
“Well, a short time ago, three men got into Ed Weed’s house, made him give ’em the combination of the safe, took his keys, tied Old Ed up so tight that he ain’t rid of the kinks yet, and took their sweet time in bustin’ the bank. They emptied the vault. As far as we can find out, there wasn’t a thin dime left. It broke a lot of folks, I’ll tell yuh that. I lost seven hundred dollars myself.”
“Where,” asked Hashknife, “does this Chiquita Morales figure in the deal, Sheriff?”
“She don’t. Her father, Pete Morales, owns a little rancho. Chiquita is about eighteen. I reckon, and as pretty as a bug’s ear. I’m past forty and I’m married, but every time she looked at me and grinned—I lost at least fifteen years of age. They’re poor, them Morales are. Poor old Pete, this’ll hit him hard.”
“No idea who busted the bank, eh?” queried Sleepy.
The sheriff sat disgustedly. “We’ve got a prisoner,” he said.
“Oh, yuh caught one of ’em, eh?” remarked Hashknife.
“Quien sabe? Yuh see, it’s thisaway. Andy Davidson—we call him Uncle Andy, and his wife, Aunt Judy—the finest folks yuh ever knowed—have a son, Johnny. Johnny’s fine. Hell, yuh can’t have a pa and ma like them, and not be fine. Johnny’s engaged to marry Nell Frawley on Christmas Eve. Well, Johnny’s in jail.”
“It don’t seem to work out,” said Hashknife.
“That’s right—but there he is. Yuh see, Johnny wears a ring. That is, he did. Navajo, I reckon. Big ring, silver and with a turquoise cross. Anybody’d know that ring. Tom Weed says that one of the men who robbed the bank wore that ring. Johnny didn’t have it on his finger when we arrested him, and he can’t tell us where it is. He just sets there in his cell, staring at the bars. It’s a tough situation, Hartley.”
“Well, can’t he prove where he was that night?” asked Sleepy.
“If he can—he won’t. Yuh can’t get a word out of him.”
“What does his girl think of the deal?” asked Sleepy.
“Nell Frawley. Lord, I dunno what she thinks. Nell is one of the finest yuh ever seen, and yuh can’t beat her folks. They got hit awful hard in that bank bust, but I don’t reckon they got hit as hard as Uncle Andy Davidson. He’s flat—but he ain’t kickin’. If Johnny was out of jail—well, I don’t think Uncle Andy is givin’ a thought to losin’ the money.”
“I can imagine,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “A fine Christmas for folks like that.”
“That’s right, Hartley—I’d plumb forgot about Christmas. Peace on earth—don’t fit so good in Dancin’ Devil Valley this season.”
After a full minute of silent riding the sheriff commented, “I plumb forgot to ask you fellers how come yo’re headin’ for Dancin’ Devil Valley?”
Hashknife studied the bobbing ears of his horse for several moments, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he looked at the sheriff and said, “Sheriff you know what a wild goose is, don’t yuh?”
“Of course, I do.”
“We’re chasin’ one,” said Hashknife.
The sheriff scratched his stubbled chin, looked sideways at Hashknife, but rode on, thinking it over. These two rather puzzled the law officer. They looked like a pair of drifting cowpokes, but why would a drifting cowpoke be looking for wild geese in the Dancing Devil country, he wondered. Funny thing, too—when that Hartley person looked at you and said something—you believed him. Even such a fantastic thing as chasing a wild goose.
It was afternoon, when they arrived in Tomahawk Flats, and the sheriff and coroner left immediately to get the body of the murdered Mexican girl. Men had guarded it since the discovery. Hashknife and Sleepy registered at the hotel, where folks talked about the crime wave.
The murder of Oren Blakely was secondary in importance. A man might get killed at any time, but for somebody to deliberately murder a girl—that needed attention.
“I seen Pete Morales and his old woman a while ago,” one man said. “Gawd, you’d think the roof fell on both of ’em.”
“It shore did,” nodded a grizzled cowman. “I lost one—once—but she wasn’t shot to death. That’s worse—if it can be.”
“Yeah, I knew. Mrs. Morales just sat there, countin’ her beads, movin’ her lips, never looked up at all. She wasn’t cryin’—jist countin’ ’em, I reckon.”
“I kinda figured that her and Frenchy would get hitched,” said another of the men. “They used to go down into Mexico to dances, and all that. Frenchy can talk Mexican pretty good.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went up to their room to leave their war-bags. Sleepy flung his bag into a corner and stood there, his hands on his hips, looking at Hashknife, who sat down to roll a cigarette.
“Go ahead, pardner—say it,” he remarked.
“Yeah! Just a couple real-estate men on horseback!” snorted Sleepy.
“Bob Marsh didn’t know things like this would happen, Sleepy; he’s no fortune teller. It just happened, that’s all.”
“Yea-a-ah? All right—be stubborn. We’re here, ain’t we? Pitch-forked into it by Bob Marsh. He knowed the bank was busted. Mebbe he knew Johnny Davidson was in jail. We came straight from his dog-gone office. Real-estate, yore eye!”
Hashknife lighted his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“It’s a terrible thing—murderin’ a girl, Sleepy.”
“That’s right—terrible! Terrible thing to murder a man, too.”
“Even if Bob Marsh knew—”
“Losin’ faith in him, eh? That’s fine. Now we can start even.”
“And there’s a job to be done, Sleepy,” after a long pause, “we’ve got a good alibi for bein’ down here—real-estate men on horseback.”
They ate supper in a little Mexican restaurant, where they found Frenchy Arnett, more than half-drunk, imbibing tequila with his meal. He didn’t speak to them—merely looked at them through bloodshot eyes, and went on drinking. Frenchy was gone, when they paid for their meal.
“Frenchy fill pretty bad—I theenk so,” said the Mexican proprietor.
“Tequila won’t help him much,” remarked Sleepy.
“Notheeng help heem much, amigo. Too bad.”
The murder of Chiquita Morales had sobered Tomahawk Flats. Even in the big Pasatiempo Saloon men talked in subdued tones, placed chips carefully into the jack-pots. The roulette-layout was not even uncovered. A man said, “I’d shore like to pull the rope on that dirty murderer.”
Another man laughed shortly and said, “Fine chance. The best our sheriff can do is put Johnny Davidson in jail. Wouldn’t have got him, if the blamed fool hadn’t worn that ring.”
“One cinch,” said a gambler, “they can’t put that onto Johnny; he was locked up tight. But I can’t figure out why anybody’d shoot the girl. As far as that goes, why was Oren Blakely shot?”
“Oren was a good hombre,” remarked another. “I talked with Sam Hack a while ago, and he said that all he knew was that Oren left the ranch, headin’ for here. Why he went to Northgate, nobody seems to know.”
“Somebody did,” said the gambler, “and that somebody had a shotgun and a load of buckshot. Well, I dunno—it beats me.”
“Beats the sheriff, too,” said another. “You watch—he’ll never get either of the killers.”
Hashknife and Sleepy slept late next morning, ate breakfast in the hotel dining-room, and when they came back to the lobby they saw an elderly couple, talking with the hotel-keeper. The man was small, thin, bow-legged, smooth-shaved, almost bird-like in his movements. The woman was gray-haired, tall, slender, sad-looking. The hotel-keeper saw Hashknife and Sleepy come from the dining-room doorway, and motioned to the man, who got up very quickly from his chair and came over to Hashknife.
“Your name is Hartley?” he asked quietly.
“That’s right,” smiled Hashknife.
“I’m Andy Davidson—AD spread. Mind talkin’ to me for a few minutes?”
“I’d like to, Mr. Davidson.”
“Everybody calls me Uncle Andy.”
“My friends call me Hashknife, Uncle Andy.”
“Yeah, that’s what—that’s the name in the letter I got a few minutes ago. I’ll show it to yuh.”
Hashknife read the short letter from Bob Marsh, which said:
Quote:I am in receipt of your telegram a few minutes ago, and in reply I can say that two men, Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens are either now in your town, or soon will be. I have perfect confidence in them and their ability. Please keep this confidential. For that reason I am writing you, rather than to use a telegram.
There was a postscript, which said, “Give my regards to Sleepy.”
Hashknife smiled slowly, folded the letter and gave it back to Uncle Andy, who was looking closely at him. Hashknife motioned to Sleepy, who came over.
“Uncle Andy,” said Hashknife, “I want you to meet Sleepy Stevens. Sleepy, this is Uncle Andy Davidson. He just got a letter from Bob Marsh.”
“Bob’s quite a hand to write letters,” remarked Sleepy. “Did he send me his regards?”
“By doggies!” exclaimed Uncle Andy. “He did just that!”
“He always does,” said Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m glad to meet yuh, Uncle Andy.”
They shook hands, and Uncle Andy introduced them to Aunt Judy Davidson, who also shook hands with them soberly.
“We’re in a peck of trouble, boys,” said Uncle Andy.
“We heard about it,” said Hashknife quietly. “Trouble seems plentiful around here. Yuh see, we just got off the train at Northgate when Oren Blakely was shot.”
“Oren was a nice boy,” offered Aunt Judy. “I’m sorry about him. Isn’t it terrible about Chiquita Morales? I liked her.”
“Is there anybody you dislike?” asked Hashknife smiling. Aunt Judy thought carefully, finally shaking her head. “I just can’t remember any,” she said seriously.
They sat down and Uncle Andy said, “How much of the story have you heard, Hashknife?”
“The sheriff told us most of it, ridin’ down here.”
“Nick has been awful nice to us,” said Aunt Judy. “It isn’t his fault—he had to do his duty.”
“She excuses everybody,” said Uncle Andy.
“You, too?” queried Sleepy.
“Not always, Sleepy. I’m about the only person she ever blames.”
“Tell me about this ring—the evidence against yore son,” said Hashknife.
“Well,” replied Uncle Andy, “Johnny bought it from a feller in Northgate. It’s a big, silver contraption, and the settin’ is a turquoise, cut in the shape of a cross. Anybody’d remember it, if they seen it once. Awful gaudy, I thought.”
“Beautiful,” added Aunt Judy. “It was a little small for Johnny, and he had to wear it on his little finger. Very heavy.”
“Ed Weed recognized it,” said Uncle Andy sadly. “He’d seen it lots of times. But Johnny, darn his soul, won’t tell what he done with it. Just sets there and shakes his head. Yuh see,” Uncle Andy cleared his throat harshly, “yuh see, Johnny and Nell Frawley was due to get married Christmas Eve.”
“Loveliest girl I ever knew,” said Aunt Judy wearily.
“I’m wonderin’ if Johnny would talk with me,” said Hashknife.
Uncle Andy shook his head. “I don’t believe he would. Won’t talk to anybody, not even a lawyer. Stubborn’s a bull calf.”
“He might,” said Aunt Judy hopefully, but added, “He ort to. Nobody can help him, if he won’t talk.”
“Let’s try it,” suggested Hashknife. “He can’t no more than refuse.”
“All right,” replied Uncle Andy. “We’ll try, but don’t say I didn’t warn yuh, Hashknife.”
They found Nick McGarvin in the office. He didn’t think that Johnny would talk, especially to strangers, but was willing for them to try. Johnny Davidson was a good-looking young cowboy, but he had stubborn eyes and a stubborn chin. Uncle Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to him, but he didn’t seem interested.
“These here men want to help yuh, Johnny,” explained Uncle Andy. “But before they can help yuh, they’ve got to hear yore story.”
“I have no story,” declared Johnny stonily. “Nothin’ to tell.”
Hashknife moved in close to the bars, and Johnny looked at him, rather defiantly, at first. Their eyes met for several moments, and Johnny turned away, looking at his mother.
“Johnny, you ought to talk to him,” she said quietly.
Johnny looked at Hashknife again, and a weak smile twisted his lips for a moment. Then he said, “All right, what do I talk about?”
“That ring, Johnny,” replied Hashknife. “We’ve got to know what yuh done with it.”
Johnny shook his head. “It won’t do a bit of good,” he said. “It can’t do any good now—it’s too damned late, Hartley.”
“Why is it too late?” asked Hashknife.
“Because Chiquita Morales is dead. Oren Blakely is dead, too.”
Uncle Andy said, “What did Chiquita—”
“Wait!” interrupted Hashknife. “Johnny can tell us—in his own way. Go ahead, Johnny.”
Johnny gnawed at his lower lip for several moments, his eyes bleak. Hashknife noticed that his hands were clenched behind him. Finally he said:
“I traded that ring, to Chiquita Morales for a pinto horse. She wanted the ring—I wanted that pintado. I—I was goin’ to tell Nell about it. I dunno—mebbe Nell was a little jealous of Chiquita. She didn’t mean anythin’ to me, Chiquita didn’t. There wasn’t any bill-of-sale—nothin’ to prove I traded. I was goin’ to get the pinto—and that’s all there was to it.
“She wanted the ring to wear to a dance—so I let her have it. I was down at Agua Verde that night, but I left there about seven o’clock. On the way back, at a little rancho, there was a lot of music, so I stopped to see what was goin’ on. It was a dance—a pretty wild dance, too. Chiquita was there with Oren Blakely. Everybody was drunk, except Chiquita, and there had been several fist-fights. Oren was drunk, too. Chiquita wanted to go home—to get away from the place. Well, at least, I’m a gentleman—I hope. We got Oren on a horse, and all three of us came back across the line. Oren wasn’t too drunk then; so we put him on the road to the Circle H, and I took Chiquita home.”
“And you was afraid that Nell would find it out?” asked Uncle Andy.
“Yeah, I was,” admitted Johnny. “Maybe I had no business doin’ it—takin’ her home, and all that—but I did.”
“Was she wearin’ the ring at the dance?” asked Hashknife.
“No, she wasn’t,” replied Johnny. “I asked her where it was, and she told me she left it at home, because it was too big, and she was afraid she’d lose it.”
“I’ll explain it to Nell,” offered Aunt Judy.
“Thanks, Ma—but I’d rather tell her. I didn’t take Chiquita to the dance—didn’t even know she was there—and when she explained that she was scared to stay there—what could I do?”
“Couldn’t anybody at that rancho testify that you were there, instead of robbin’ a bank?” asked Uncle Andy.
“I doubt it, ’cause I didn’t mix in the dance. And, anyway,” said Johnny, “nobody knows what time of night the bank was robbed. Ed Weed didn’t know. They woke him up, but he never seen a clock.”
“I heard that Chiquita was to marry Frenchy Arnett,” said Hashknife.
“Quien sabe?” Johnny smiled sourly. “Chiquita liked to have fun. She asked me to not tell Frenchy. I wouldn’t, anyway. It wasn’t my business.”
“Johnny,” said Hashknife, “do you know of anybody who hated Oren Barkley enough to shoot him? Maybe somebody who knew he took Chiquita to a dance.”
Johnny shook his head. “No, I don’t, Hartley. Frenchy was supposed to be keepin’ steady company with Chiquita. Frenchy was either in Northgate, or on his way up there, when she was killed. Oren wasn’t quarrelsome. In fact, that night was the first time I had ever seen him drunk. Oh, he took a drink now and then, I suppose, but not enough to affect him.”
“Well, much obliged, Johnny,” said Hashknife, shaking hands through the bars.
“Yo’re welcome, Hartley. Glad to have met yuh—and you, too, Stevens.”
He kissed his mother between the bars, and they went out. Aunt Judy took hold of Hashknife’s shoulders and turned him around on the sidewalk, looking straight into his eyes.
“I just wanted to find out why Johnny talked to you,” she said as he smiled slowly at her.
“Don’t be silly, Ma,” grinned Uncle Andy.
“I’m not silly,” she said quietly, and turned away. Hashknife patted her on the shoulder.
“I dunno how it was done—but it was,” Uncle Andy said. “Hashknife, we want you and Sleepy to make the ranch yore home. We’ve got room out there, and we’d sure admire havin’ yuh stay there.”
“Later—maybe,” said Hashknife. “Thank yuh both a lot.”
“Make it when yuh can; we’ll be lookin’ for yuh.”
Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, was a little amazed over the willingness of Johnny Davidson to talk to a stranger. And he was also a bit curious as to just why Andy Davidson had brought these two strangers to the jail for the conference. He asked Johnny, who thought it over for several moments.
“I don’t know, Nick,” he said. “Mother and Dad brought ’em in here, and Hartley, the tall one asked me questions.”
“Which you answered,” said the sheriff dryly.
“That’s right, I did—but don’t ask me why, Nick. It is kinda funny. Somethin’ about him—I dunno what.”
Pete Morales and his wife came to town, and the sheriff asked Pete if he knew anything about Chiquita trading a pinto horse to Johnny Davidson for a turquoise ring.
Pete shook his head sadly. “Mi amigo,” he said wearily, “I know notheeng, excep’s Chiquita ees died. I see no reeng.”
“Did you know that Chiquita went to the dance in Mexico with Oren Blakely?”
Again the little Mexican shook his head. “No,” he said huskily. “I tell her, ‘Kip to hell from those dance at Miguel’s rancho. Bad pippil down there.’ But I theenk she go anyway.”
Nick McGarvin went back to his office. Frenchy hadn’t showed up yet. The death of Chiquita Morales was a terrible blow to the little deputy—and he was drinking too much.
Sam Hack and his only remaining cowboy, Gus Staley, came over to the sheriff’s office. Hack was a tall, gaunt man, with deep-set eyes, long arms and huge, bony hands. Hack was really a newcomer to the Dancing Devil range, having bought the NK spread from the bank, which had it on a foreclosure, and registered his own brand. Oren Blakely had been one of his two men. Gus Staley was rather a nondescript cowpoke, who liked liquor and cards.
Hack wanted action. He said, “Nick, you’ve got to do somethin’ about the murder of Oren. Yuh can’t let things like that go—”
“Suggest somethin’,” replied the harassed sheriff. “It’s easy to talk about, Sam. Nobody knows why Oren headed for Northgate, nobody knows who wanted to shoot him. Everyone seemed to like him. If you know anythin’ else, let me know.”
“Well,” replied Hack soberly, “I wish I could, Nick. Has Johnny Davidson talked yet?”
“Johnny talked this mornin’, Sam. He wouldn’t talk to me, and he wouldn’t talk to his ma and pa—but he talked to a stranger.”
“Meanin’ what?” asked Hack flatly.
The sheriff shook his head. “I dunno, Sam—I can’t figure it.”
And then the sheriff told them what Johnny told Hashknife.
Sam Hack and Gus Staley listened closely while the sheriff related Johnny’s story, and the sheriff finished with:
“I asked Johnny why he told all this to Hartley, when he wouldn’t talk with anybody else, and he said he didn’t know.”
“Kinda funny,” remarked Hack. He turned to Staley, “Gus, did you know that Oren took Chiquita to that dance?”
Staley shook his head. “Oren didn’t talk much,” he replied. “He was drunk when he got back to the ranch that night, but he didn’t say where he’d been, I figured he got drunk here.”
“Gus,” said the sheriff, “you’ve been with Oren a long time. If I remember right, you came here with him. Do you know anybody who hated him enough to shoot him?”
“Hell, no!” snorted Gus Staley.
“Well, there yuh are,” said the sheriff, shrugging helplessly. “Gus has been bunkin’ the man all this time, and even he don’t know who’d shoot him.”
“Who is Hartley and Stevens?” asked Hack.
The sheriff smiled. “I rode all the way down here from Northgate with them two,” he said, “and all I know is that they’ve each got two legs and two arms. Yuh might ask Andy Davidson—he seemed to know ’em.”
“Just a couple driftin’ cowpokes, eh?”
“You name ’em,” replied the sheriff. “They came in on the freight-train, got off at Northgate, just before Oren climbed on and got shot. They had their saddles along with ’em, and I know they bought two horses at the feed corral.”
“Well,” yawned Hack, “we’ve got to be driftin’, Nick. When is the inquest?”
“Tomorrow mornin’, Doc Talbert told me. You’ll be here?”
“Yeah. After all, Oren was one of my boys.”
|
![[Image: YellowQueen.jpg]](http://160.32.227.211/YellowQueen.jpg)
