CHAPTER V
MOONLIGHT IN THE BORDER COUNTRY
Pedro Torres was in a bad frame of mind over his enforced bath in the blacksmith shop. He made a few purchases at one of the stores, bought a bath in the one tub at the hotel, and became presentable again.
But his vanity had been badly injured, and he swore dire threats toward the man who had insulted him. He assured himself that he had done nothing wrong, merely desiring to talk with a half-breed girl.
Garcia was not sympathetic. He had seen the incident, and the fact that Torres hankered for revenge made little difference to Garcia. If Torres had asked Garcia to kill Hashknife, Garcia would have instantly agreed to do it.
Baldy Kern smiled grimly and polished his head. He was curious to know a few things about Hashknife and Sleepy. Baldy was not talkative, so he chose to listen. Cloudy Day, still full of liquor, had been told of the incident, and imagined that he had seen it.
“It sure was good,” he announced in the Greenback Saloon. “That tall puncher was all crippled up with rheumatism, but he picked Torres up just like Torres wasn’t nothin’. If that feller’s got rheumatism, I’m paralyzed, thassall.”
Baldy grinned widely. He had seen no evidences of Hashknife’s being a cripple.
“Who is this feller, Cloudy?” he asked.
“Tha’s a question,” said Cloudy owlishly. “Lon introduced me to them, but I didn’t git the names.”
“Lon knows ’em, does he?”
“Oh, abs’lutely. Why, Lon’s an old friend of theirs.”
Baldy accepted this with a grain of salt. He knew that Cloudy was prone to exaggerate, especially when drinking; so he found Lon Belly in the Yellow Stamp Saloon, bought Lon a drink, and swung the conversation around to the baptism of Torres.
Lon hadn’t seen it either.
“Must be strong,” commented Baldy. “Torres ain’t no little kid. They tell me that this stranger picked Torres up and packed him to the blacksmith shop.”
“He’s tall, but don’t look very strong,” said Lon. “I dunno anythin’ about him, except what I got from talkin’ with him a little. They was on the stage when it was held up. The tall one said they was goin’ over to Hawkworth’s for him to take baths for his rheumatism.”
“Must be badly crippled,” mused Baldy aloud.
“He did limp a little,” offered Lon. “Mebbe he got so mad at Torres that he forgot to limp. A feller over in the restaurant seen it, and he said that Torres was bowin’ and scrapin’ to Wanna Hawkworth when this feller picked him up.”
Baldy smiled softly and bought another drink. Did Lon know what this tall feller’s name was?
“Name’s Hartley. Short one is Stevens.”
Baldy considered the names, but they meant nothing to him.
“How much of a haul did the robbers get?” he asked.
“Nobody seems to know,” replied Lon.
“Got any idea who done it, Lon?”
“Yeah—three men.”
Baldy left the Yellow Stamp and went down to the doctor’s house. He had known Doctor Henry for several months. The doctor was an oldish man, very methodical, reserved.
“The patient is doing very nicely,” he told Baldy. “I recovered the bullet, and can see no reason why, with proper care, he should not completely recover.”
“That’s fine,” agreed Baldy. “Yo’re some doctor. What was the feller’s name, Doc?”
“His name is Jack Hill, I believe.”
“Uh-huh. Jack Hill. Must be a stranger, eh?”
“I think he is, Mr. Kern. He is not inclined to talk about himself. My worry now is to get a suitable nurse for him. He says he is able to pay for services, and wants to be sent out, but such a thing would be impossible.”
“I dunno where you’d find a nurse, Doc. Wimmin ain’t noways plentiful around here, not the nursin’ kind.”
Baldy went back to the Greenback Saloon, none the wiser for his interviews.
He did not know anyone by the name of Jack Hill, and he wondered why the holdup man had shot him down. For his own satisfaction, Baldy desired to know things.
It was shortly after dark that Torres and Garcia mounted their horses and rode out of Pinnacle, heading south. Across the border was the Rancho Sierra, owned by Steve Guadalupe, who bred gamecocks and trouble. Steve was an old man and full of iniquity, who pointed with pride to the fact that his ancestors were pure Castilian, when, as a matter of fact, he was a mixture of Portuguese, Mexican, and Yaqui.
Torres and Garcia were friends of Steve, as were most of the denizens of the border, whose deviltry served to bring dishonor upon the Mexicans as a people. The Rancho Sierra was too isolated for the Mexican Government to bother with Steve’s doings, and the United States officers could only patrol the border and hate him from afar.
Two more of Baldy’s men, Sam Blair and Jack Baum, had ridden into town just before Torres and Garcia rode away. Blair was a blocky-faced individual, none too intelligent-looking and of rather unkempt appearance.
Baldy met him at the hitch-rack and whispered for him to follow Torres and see where he was going. Blair nodded and rode out of town a few minutes after Torres and Garcia. Blair did not ask questions; neither did Baldy tell him why he wanted Torres followed.
It was one of those moonlight nights down in the border country, when the moon seems to almost rest upon the hills and bathes the world in a blue light. Blair had no difficulty in following Torres and Garcia. They rode slowly toward the south until a mile out of town, when they turned northeast, circling back around Pinnacle.
Blair waited until they had made their swing before following them. He rode a gray horse, which made him almost invisible in the gray blue of the landscape. Torres and Garcia rode faster now, keeping off the road and heading straight for Hawkworth’s Tumbling H Ranch. Blair suspected that this was their goal, so he moved closer.
They swung wide of the ranch buildings and came in behind the stable, while Blair dismounted farther up the cañon and came down on foot. Two of the ranch-house buildings were illuminated, and he could hear a squeaky phonograph playing a waltz.
Blair came in behind the stable, going softly. He knew that Torres and Garcia were not far away. He crawled through the corral fence, went slowly along the side of the stable and out through the other side of the corral.
There was still no sign of Torres and Garcia. Blair peered around the corner of the stable. He could see the door of the bathhouse, which was illuminated from a light within. From the ranch-house came the sound of muffled voices.
Blair scratched his nose and considered things. If someone came from the rear door of the ranch-house, they could see him. He did not like his position in the matter at all. Someone was moving around in the bathhouse, and now the occupant came out, carrying a lantern, which gave little light.
Blair flattened himself against the wall, between the corner of the barn and the corral, peering around to see which way the lantern-bearer was going.
Then there came a dull thud, and the man with the lantern went down, throwing the lantern aside, but not extinguishing it. Blair jerked back. Torres and Garcia ran past him, going around the corner of the corral and out to their horses.
In another minute he heard them riding swiftly away. The phonograph had started another turn.
Blair squinted thoughtfully as he peered out again. He could see the black bulk of the man on the ground, and the spluttering lantern near him.
Cautiously Blair stepped away from the corner and went swiftly over to the man, who was lying on his back. He picked up the lantern and stepped in close, throwing the beams of light into the face of the man on the ground.
For several moments Blair stared down at that face, oblivious to everything. He bent closer, holding the lantern on a level with his own face, as he peered into the features of the injured man. A voice spoke to him out of the darkness and he jerked upright, still clutching the lantern.
It was late that evening when Musical Matthews and Cleve Davis rode in at the Tumbling H and met Hashknife and Sleepy. In a few short words Big Medicine told them that Hashknife and Sleepy would be with them until Hashknife’s rheumatism had succumbed to the effect of the hot baths.
Hashknife had just got out of bed and was feeling better, but slightly weak. Lucy had told about Hashknife’s encounter with Torres, and it seemed to please everyone except Hashknife. Big Medicine seemed a bit dubious over the outcome of it.
“Watch that Mexican,” he warned Hashknife. “He’s a snake.”
“I’ve made snakes bite themselves,” grinned Hashknife.
“Didja ever see one of them knife-throwin’ Mex handle his weapon?” asked Musical.
“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “I don’t sabe ’em much.”
“Then look out for ’em. Knives don’t make no noise. I’d shore rather face a six-gun than a knife, and either Torres or his dirty-face pardner, Garcia, can shore pin your ears back with a knife at twenty feet.”
Lucy came to announce supper, and they all clattered to the table, except Hashknife.
“I’ve done lost my appetite,” he told them. “Couldn’t eat a thing, folks; so I reckon I’ll take the lantern and go out to the bathhouse. Another good soakin’ and a big sleep will put me in the saddle again.”
Lucy secured the lantern for him and he went out through the kitchen, while the rest of them did ample justice to the culinary efforts of Lucy and Wanna, who waited on the table silently.
“We rode beyond the breaks,” Musical told Big Medicine. “As far as we can see, everythin’ is all right. There wasn’t many cows over on that side. From up on that saw-tooth ridge yuh can almost see the Rancho Sierra.”
Big Medicine nodded and turned to Sleepy.
“This Rancho Sierra is across the border. Belongs to old Steve Guadalupe, the meanest old Mexican that ever stole a cow. We have to keep our eyes open all the time, Stevens. They’ve raided us a few times.”
“Yuh can’t get ’em back after they cross the line, eh?”
“Not very well. Our business is to keep them far enough on this side to make it hard for them to grab very many. Guadalupe has a tough gang down there, rustlers, smugglers, and all that kind of folks.”
“I wonder if it was some of his gang that held us up the other night,” said Sleepy.
Big Medicine frowned heavily, but said nothing.
“Hell, yuh don’t have to go into Mexico to find holdup men,” said Cleve Davis. “There’s plenty of ’em on this side of the line. I’ve got a hunch that it was white men from this side of the line that stole the last bunch of cattle from us.”
“That K-10 outfit?” began Musical, but Big Medicine stopped him with a gesture.
“Name no names, Musical, please,” he said softly. “There is bad blood between this ranch and the K-10, and the least said the better. Give them the benefit of the doubt, until we are sure.”
“All right, Big Medicine. I s’pose that’s right, too. But I get kinda mad once in a while.”
“You should learn to control your temper.”
Sleepy grinned, as he remembered how Big Medicine had pitched Jim Reed out on his head that morning. Big Medicine had said nothing about being mad, but had admitted that Reed had irritated him beyond endurance. Sleepy wondered what Big Medicine might do if he became mad.
They finished their meal and went back to the creaky-floored living-room, where Musical proceeded to put a record on the phonograph. After the second record Sleepy grew nervous. He hitched his chair around, tore up two cigarette papers, and decided he would go and see how Hashknife was getting on with his bath.
He went out through the kitchen, where Lucy and Wanna were clearing off the table, and the old squaw handed him a clean towel.
“I ain’t goin’ to take a bath,” he told her smiling.
“All right. You giveum to tall man. He need much towel.”
“There is quite a lot of him,” grinned Sleepy. “Thanks.”
The door was not latched and he stepped out softly. The bathhouse was only fifty feet away. About ten feet from the open door of the bathhouse crouched a man, holding a lantern in such a way that his face was fully illuminated. Lying on the ground was the body of a man.
Sleepy stepped forward, his right hand reaching back to his gun.
“What are you doin’ here?” he almost shouted.
Sam Blair jerked up, still holding the lantern, but flung it aside as he drew his gun. The lantern had barely smashed to the ground when the two men began shooting.
Sleepy felt the first bullet as it passed his head, and fired twice in rapid succession. Blair fired again, but the streak of flame from his gun was pointing upward and the bullet went streaking toward the North Star, while Blair stumbled and went down in a heap.
It was all over in five seconds. The kitchen door crashed open and the three cowpunchers, headed by Big Medicine, came running out. Sleepy was going toward Blair, covering him with his gun, when Big Medicine joined him.
“What happened?” he panted. “What was the matter?”
“Watch that jigger,” said Sleepy hoarsely. “I think he’s got Hashknife.”
Sleepy fell on his knees beside Hashknife, while the others scratched matches. Big Medicine came from Blair.
“Take him into the house,” he ordered. “This other feller ain’t goin’ to get away, until he’s carried away.”
They carried Hashknife into the house and placed him on the floor, while Big Medicine made a swift examination.
“He got hit, that’s all,” declared Big Medicine, pointing to an egglike swelling on Hashknife’s head between his eye and ear. “He’ll be all right in a few minutes, I think.”
Sleepy sighed with relief and leaned against the wall.
“That other jigger opened the ball,” he said wearily. “His first bullet almost creased me. He was humped over Hashknife, lookin’ him over with a lantern, when I went out there. I just had a hunch that somethin’ was wrong.”
Big Medicine nodded slowly.
“It was Sam Blair of the K-10 outfit,” he said softly.
“Dead?” asked Musical.
“Yes.”
Musical shrugged his shoulders.
“The war is on, I reckon.”
“Aw, that’s too bad,” said Sleepy. “Dang it, I had to shoot.”
“Sure yuh did,” assured Musical. “That’s all right, Stevens.”
The practical Lucy came in with a basin of water and a towel, with which she proceeded to bathe Hashknife’s head and face. He opened his eyes and stared up at them in wonderment.
“How are yuh feelin’, pardner?” asked Sleepy.
Hashknife sat up and felt gingerly of his head.
“What happened?” he asked foolishly.
“Somebody hit yuh when yuh came out of the bathhouse.”
“Oh, yeah.” Hashknife got to his feet and blinked painfully. “I remember startin’ out, when somethin’ hit me and I seen a million stars. Who was it, Sleepy?”
“I dunno.”
Sleepy scratched his head nervously, as he told Hashknife what he had done.
“They tell me that his name was Sam Blair,” said Sleepy.
“From the K-10 outfit,” said Musical quickly. “Mebbe we better kinda look around with a lantern, eh?”
Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged a quick glance.
“You feel good now?” asked Lucy anxiously, dripping water from the towel and the basin.
“Yeah, I feel fine,” lied Hashknife. “Ain’t got a pain in either leg.”
The boys had secured another lantern and were going out to look around. Hashknife sat down in a chair and Lucy proceeded to attack the swelling with compresses. In a few minutes Musical came back and placed a long-bladed knife, with a horn handle, on the table beside Hashknife.
“There’s what hit yuh,” he declared. “Whoever throwed it at yuh must ’a’ misjudged a little and hit yuh with the hilt. It was right near where yuh was layin’. And,” added Musical, “that Sam Blair wasn’t no knife-thrower.”
“Wasn’t he?”
Hashknife looked the knife over carefully. It was a wicked weapon, almost as sharp as a razor, and with a point like a needle.
“Do yuh reckon the Mexican did it?” asked Hashknife.
“You’ll probably never know who done it,” said Ike. “Sam Blair is too dead to skin. Mebbe he knowed who threw it. If he didn’t, what in hell was he doin’ out there? Big Medicine swore he’d kill the first K-10 puncher that showed up; swore that to Baldy Kern.
“It’s shore too bad, but it can’t be helped. The K-10 will declare war as sure as hell. Not that we care a whoop what they do, except that it’ll mean a killin’.”
Ike turned to Sleepy.
“That Sam Blair is the puncher I was tellin’ yuh about, from Oregon, or up thataway. Funny, ain’t it? Talkin’ about him today, and got him on our hands tonight—dead.”
Big Medicine came in and sat down. His face was very grave, as he rested his big hands on his knees and squinted thoughtfully. Ike handed him the knife and he hefted it in his hand.
“I don’t think that Blair ever threw it,” he said. “It looks like one that Pete Torres might use.”
“If Blair had nothin’ to do with it, why did he start shootin’ at Stevens?” asked Musical.
“I don’t know, Musical.”
Big Medicine handed back the knife.
“This will start trouble, won’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Very likely,” said Big Medicine. “The K-10 outfit is not a crew of men you can talk things over with.”
“I’ll tell yuh what we’ll do,” suggested Hashknife. “We’ll pack the body in close to Pinnacle and swear that we met him and he started shootin’. That’ll let you folks out of it.”
“That’s it,” agreed Sleepy. “They’ll believe us.”
But Big Medicine shook his head quickly. “Since when did the Tumbling H shift a responsibility to a guest?” he demanded. “If Baldy Kern wants battle, he’ll get it.”
“Suits me,” said Musical joyfully. “I’ve been kinda——”
“Just a moment,” begged Hashknife. “We’re not askin’ to take any responsibility off the Tumblin’ H Ranch. There’s somethin’ wrong about this whole thing, folks. If Torres threw that knife, what did Blair have to do with it? Torres ain’t connected with the K-10, is he?”
“No, he sure ain’t,” declared Ike.
“Find Blair’s horse,” said Hashknife. “He didn’t walk here.”
Musical, Cleve, Ike, and Sleepy went horse-hunting, while Big Medicine watched Lucy draw most of the swelling from Hashknife’s injury. The hilt of the knife had bruised the scalp a little, but it would not be noticeable after the swelling was out.
“Torres probably threw that knife, saw you fall, and headed for the border,” said Big Medicine. “It isn’t often that he misses. Possibly he hurried his throw and misjudged the distance in the dark.”
“Always somethin’ to be thankful for,” grinned Hashknife. “It always seems that things might ’a’ been worse.”
In a few minutes the boys came in. They had found Blair’s gray horse, branded with the K-10, and brought it up to the house.
“What’s the next thing to do?” asked Ike.
“We’ll put Blair on his horse and take him to town,” said Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy found him beside the road when we were comin’ in from this ranch, and we don’t know a thing about how he got killed. There’s somethin’ wrong about this deal, and if we make a mystery about this, mebbe somebody will show their cards.”
Big Medicine nodded gravely.
“Possibly. I wish we could settle this without open warfare, but I do not want you to take the blame. Blair had no right to be here tonight. He knew that I had drawn a deadline against the K-10, and he knew that I would keep my word.”
They loaded Blair’s body on his horse, roped it on with Blair’s rope, and saddled their own horses. Hashknife walked with only a slight limp and was able to mount his horse without much suffering. His head ached slightly, but otherwise he felt able to take care of himself.
“Come out tomorrow mornin’,” invited Big Medicine.
“Come tonight,” said Lucy. “We got plenty bed.”
“Thank yuh,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll see how this deal will work out. So long.”