CHAPTER X—SCOTTY GETS AN EARFUL OF DIRT
The three officers rode back toward Red Arrow, riding knee-to-knee along the dusty road.
“Well, what do yuh think, Slim?” asked Chuck, after a long period of silent riding.
The sheriff shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the bobbing ears of his mount.
“Looks bad,” he said seriously. “That bump on his head might ’a’ been caused by a fall from a horse.”
“That’s what I thought of, Slim. But, by golly, he’s cool. His face didn’t show nothin’ when yuh told him. I watched him close.”
Slim drew up his horse and looked back, his brows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. Then—
“Scotty, you go back to the end of that cut, and camp where yuh can watch things. If old Rance knows his saddle horse is lyin’ dead near the end of that cut, still wearin’ his saddle, he’ll prob’ly try to get it away.”
“That’s a chance we don’t want to take,” agreed Scotty. “If he comes, what’ll I do, Slim?”
“Stop him, Scotty.”
“The proper thing to have done would have been to arrest him on the evidence we’ve already got,” said Chuck.
“Mebby you’re right,” agreed Slim. “But there’s two ways of lookin’ at it. If he got one of the millions you talk about, arrestin’ him won’t get it back. He won’t run away and leave his ranch; so we don’t need to be in a big hurry.”
“That’s sense,” agreed Scotty. “I’ll see yuh later.”
He turned his horse and rode back toward the south, while Slim Caldwell and Chuck Ring continued on toward Red Arrow.
Scotty McKay didn’t like the idea of spending the day out there, standing guard over the body of a dead horse, but he realized the wisdom of protecting their main exhibit. He had turned back just short of the old wagon bridge across the Red Arrow River and headed back toward Curlew Spur. The going was very rough through the brushy hills, but Scotty was not in any great hurry.
He was about five hundred yards from the end of the big cut, following fairly close to the right-of-way fence, when a bullet droned so close to his ear that he almost fell off his horse. The hills echoed back the rattling report of the rifle, but there was no question in Scotty’s mind as to which direction the bullet came from. He slid quickly off his saddle, jerked his rifle from the boot, and ducked low in the tangle of brush. The horse turned and trotted back along the fence, hooked the reins around a snag, and stopped short.
Scotty squatted on his heels and debated thoughtfully.
“Not over two hundred yards away,” he decided. “Report of gun was plenty audible.”
He put his hat on the end of his rifle barrel and lifted it above the brush, jiggling it from side to side. But there was no shooting. He put the hat back on his head, scratched his chin reflectively. Scotty was no reckless fool. He realized that he had everything to lose and nothing to gain by exposing himself.
He considered his next move carefully. To his left was a wide expanse of small, brush-filled ravines where he would be able to find plenty of cover. So much cover, in fact, that he would be unable to see anything himself. To his right was the right-of-way fence, a steep bank—and the railroad track.
To crawl through this fence and slide down the bank would be a simple matter. And once in the wide open space of the railroad cut it would also be a simple matter for the other man to fill him full of lead. But, reasoned Scotty, the other man might think the same thing, and not expect him to take such a big chance.
He crawled under the lower wire and out to the edge of the cut, where he leaned out as far as he dared, scanning the bank along the tracks. As far as he could see there was no one in sight. After a minute of deliberation he turned around and lowered his legs over the steep bank.
Slowly he let himself down, gripping the top of the bank with his elbows. He was almost stretched out full length down that bank, working his knees into the soft dirt, getting all ready to let loose and slide to the bottom, when——
Whap!
A bullet thudded into the dirt just under his right hip.
Splug!
Another ripped into the dirt, higher up, and filled his right ear with a spray of gravel. Scotty was stretched out so completely that he was unable to act quickly for a moment, but when he did get going he rolled clear under the right-of-way fence, tearing a great rip across the back of his shirt.
“Whew!”
He sat up and shook the dirt out of his ear, before reaching back to get his rifle. His nose was beaded with perspiration, and the hand that reached for his cigarette-papers trembled exceedingly.
“For a moment I was what an insurance agent would call a bad r-risk,” he muttered aloud. “What a fool a man may be! And still, all I got was a dir-r-rty ear and the scare of me young life.”
He laid the rifle across his lap, lighted his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“If ye want me,” he grinned softly, “ye know where I am.”
For the better part of fifteen minutes Scotty McKay remained motionless. He heard a locomotive whistling for Curlew Spur, and in a few minutes a freight train came along, creaking and groaning, the single engine working hard to pull the long train up the grade. Scotty pinched out the light of his second cigarette, stretched his arms, picked up his rifle and sneaked down through the brush.
Inaction had palled upon him, and he was going to try to find out who had been shooting at him. Slowly he moved ahead, most of the time on his hands and knees. It took him at least thirty minutes to cover a hundred yards, where he came out on the top of a little knoll, heaped high with boulders.
From this vantage-point he could get a good view of the surrounding country. As far as he could see, everything was serene. Farther ahead and to the right was an open swale with the railroad fence across the upper end of it. On the other side of that fence was the end of the big cut, and just beyond the swale, in a clump of brush, was Rance McCoy’s saddle horse, dead. A bullet had smashed through its head.
Scotty could not see the horse, but he knew where it was, and he was in a position to see if any one came to molest it. He squinted at the sun, estimated that it would be some time before Slim or Chuck would come to relieve him, made himself as comfortable as possible and prepared to watch.
Slim Caldwell and Chuck Ring went straight back to Red Arrow and dismounted at the depot, where the telegraph operator handed Slim a telegram, which read:
MOVE CAREFULLY FIVE THOUSAND REWARD FOR RETURN OF STOLEN PACKAGES SENDING OPERATIVE AND DETAILSWELLS FARGO
“Didn’t I tell yuh?” said Chuck. “I said all along that we ought to go careful. They want them packages back. Betcha anythin’ yuh want to bet, they got away with a million.”
“With all yore hindsight, it’s a wonder to me that you never amounted to somethin’,” growled Slim. “They never got any million dollars, but they did get enough for the express company to advise movin’ carefully.”
They mounted their horses and rode back to the courthouse, where Slim had a conference with Albert Merkle, the prosecuting attorney. Merkle was as round as a barrel, with a face like a full moon, serving his first term as county prosecutor and taking his position very seriously.
Merkle read the telegram, listened closely to what Slim had to tell him, and then propounded wisely:
“That evidence won’t last long unless we take steps to protect it, Slim. A couple of nights, and the coyotes will ruin it for our use.”
“Well, we can’t file it away in my office,” protested Slim.
“No, that’s true. I’ll go out with you and look at it.”
They secured a horse for Merkle at the livery stable, and headed back toward the scene of the robbery. Merkle wanted to have Rance McCoy arrested at once, but Slim demurred.
“Wait’ll we find out what he got, Al. It was a one-man job, and if he got a big haul, he’s got it planted. He’ll never confess, and he’ll never tell where the stuff is hid.”
“My end of the affair is only interested in a conviction, Slim.”
“Yore end of the affair is only interested in justice,” corrected Chuck Ring. “Don’t be so civilized, Al.”
“I guess that’s right,” laughed Merkle. “It’s easy to overlook that angle of it.”
They made no attempt at concealment, but rode in at the lower end of the swale. Scotty saw them and stood up among the rocks, calling to them; after which he clawed his way through the brush to the clearing.
“Where’s yore horse?” asked Slim.
“Aw, he’s back along the railroad fence. Anyway, that’s where he was the last time I seen him.”
As rapidly as possible Scotty told them what had happened to him.
“Were they trying to kill you, McKay?” asked Merkle.
“Well, I dunno what was on their mind at the time,” said Scotty seriously. “It had all the earmarks of intent to kill, Mer-r-rkle.”
“And yuh didn’t see anybody, eh?” queried Slim anxiously.
“I did not. Ye missed the sight of your life. I tell ye, I was hangin’ by my elbows, without any foothold whatever, and I upended myself over the bank and under that wire so fast that I surprised myself. Look at the back of me shirt, will yuh?”
Slim scratched his chin reflectively and scanned the surrounding country, while Merkle shifted uneasily in his saddle.
“We might as well look at the evidence,” said Slim.
“Yes; let’s get it over with,” agreed Merkle heartily.
They rode up to the fence, accompanied by Scotty on foot, and tied their horses. Slim led the way over to where the horse was stretched out in the low brush.
“F’r the love of gosh!” exploded Slim. “Look at that!”
The saddle was missing, and from the upturned rump, which had been graced with the Circle Spade brand, had been skinned a spot about twelve inches square. On the shoulder was another skinned patch, one ear had been cut off close to the head, and the left front leg had been skinned from knee to fetlock.
“And the shoes have been yanked off!” snorted Scotty. “I remember that the animal was shod.”
“And there goes yore old evidence,” said Chuck dolefully.
Slim whistled unmusically between his teeth.
“They kept me away while they destroyed evidence,” said Scotty.
“That was the idea,” admitted Slim sadly. He twisted his neck and looked toward the Circle Spade ranch.
“But even at that, you three men saw the animal,” said the prosecutor. “You can swear it was a Circle Spade horse; the riding horse of Rance McCoy.”
“Sure,” nodded Slim quickly. “We saw it, Al. And not only that, but we recognized the old man’s saddle.”
“What kind of a saddle was it?”
Slim looked quickly at Chuck, who scratched his nose and looked at Scotty.
“I can’t tell yuh,” said Scotty. “I seen it, too.”
“Pshaw!” snorted Slim. “We all seen it, Al; but there ain’t a damned one of us that can describe it. I could pick it out, but I can’t describe it.”
“Not such good evidence,” admitted the attorney. “Maybe we better go back to town.”
“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Slim. “Go get yore bronc, Scotty.”
CHAPTER XI—A HORSE TRADE
It was early morning in the town of Welcome; the cold gray dawn of a fall morning, with a brisk breeze, which caused the livery-stable keeper to slap his hands violently against his thigh, as he watered a team of horses at the trough in front of the stable.
On the rough porch of a saloon a swamper swept away an accumulation of playing-cards, cigarette-butts, and other litter of a gambling-house and saloon. The cards slithered away in the breeze like autumn leaves. From a blacksmith shop came the musical clank of a hammer on anvil, as the smithy tuned up for his morning task.
Two cowboys came from the doorway of a small hotel, pausing for a moment on the edge of the sidewalk, before crossing the street toward a cafe. They walked with the peculiar rolling gait of men who wear high-heeled boots, their elbows held closely to their sides, as is the habit of men who spend most of their lives in the saddle.
One cowboy was well over six feet tall, thin, angular. His features were heavily lined, nose rather large, wide mouth, and gray eyes. The other cowboy was less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder, with a square face, out of which beamed a pair of blue eyes, now slightly clouded with sleep. His face was grin-wrinkled and his eyes were nested in a mass of tiny lines, caused from their owner’s propensity for seeing the funny side of life.
The tall one was “Hashknife” Hartley, and the other was “Sleepy” Stevens, strangers to Welcome town.
“The wind she blow, pretty soon we have snow, and what will poor robin do then, poor thing?” grinned Sleepy.
“Yu-u-uh betcha!” grunted Hashknife. “She’s gettin’ a long ways north for summer clothes.”
They entered the restaurant and sat down. Just behind them came Bill Warren, former dealer for Angel McCoy at Red Arrow. Warren nodded to them and sat down at their table.
“Been dealin’ all night,” he said briskly. “Some fellers never know when to quit playin’. Strangers here, ain’t yuh?”
“Came in late last night,” said Hashknife.
“Goin’ to stay?”
“Prob’ly not.”
They ceased the conversation long enough to order their breakfast.
“Do they play pretty heavy around here?” asked Sleepy.
“Well, pretty good. Welcome ain’t as good as Red Arrow, but we get a pretty fair play here. I’ve only been here a few days. I’m from Red Arrow. That’s northwest of here, less than twenty miles. Pretty good place.”
“Good play up there, eh?”
“You bet. Say, you boys don’t happen to be lookin’ for an investment, do yuh?”
“All depends,” said Hashknife seriously.
“I see. Well, what made me ask was the fact that there’s a bargain in Red Arrow. Feller by the name of McCoy has kinda broke his pick up there. Owns the Eagle Saloon and gamblin’-house. Pulled a funny deal on his own father, and aced him out of a lot of money. Queered his own game. Fact. I hear he’s had to close the place. And he sure had a big play.”
“Would he sell cheap?” asked Hashknife, attacking his ham and eggs.
“I’ll bet he would. Somewhat of a fool, this McCoy. His father is a tough old gunman, and they never got along. Oh, it’s a salty place up there. Some lone wolf held up the train the other night and got away with a fortune.”
“They did, eh?”
Hashknife paused and stared at Warren. Sleepy snorted softly, gazing disconsolately at his platter of food.
“Yuh bet they did,” said Warren. “One man pulled it all alone. Broke the train at Curlew Spur, took the engine and express car up the track a ways and blew the safe. I don’t know how much he got, but they say he got plenty.”
“Prob’ly,” nodded Hashknife, stirring his coffee with the handle of his knife.
“And they won’t catch him,” declared Warren. “Too many places to hide—and one man don’t talk, except to himself.”
“Prob’ly not,” said Hashknife absently.
“But that Eagle Saloon would be a mint if it was run right. Angel McCoy is all through. The fixtures are all first-class, and I could help yuh—yuh know what I mean. I know most everybody up there.
“Me and Angel always got along good. He had to turn me loose, because business was pretty bad. Not that I care a damn about Angel. He’s salty. His old man ain’t very well liked either. Got a bad reputation. Him and Angel never got along, And there’s a girl—sister of Angel’s. Name’s Lila. She just got back from school, I understand. She’s about twenty years old. I ain’t never met the lady, but I can say she’s a mighty pretty girl. I heard a rumor that she wasn’t Angel’s sister, and that she just found out that old Rance ain’t her father. Anyway, she had quit the ranch and was livin’ in town when I left there. They say Angel is stuck on her, but she’d be a fool to marry him. He’s crooked; and it don’t pay to play crooked in that town. Them cattlemen sabe poker, and they sure declare an open season on yuh the first time yuh make a break.”
“Pretty near time for the fall roundup, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Sure. If you go up there, look into that proposition. I’ll bet you could buy Angel out for a song. He’s all through in that country.”
They finished their breakfast and walked out to the main street of Welcome.
“Well, we might as well start, I suppose,” said Sleepy dolefully.
“Start where?”
“Don’t try to be funny, Hashknife. Yore neck stretched a foot when he mentioned that holdup.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Oh, yeah,” mimicked Sleepy. “Now, don’t tell me you’re interested in their fall roundup.”
“With twenty dollars between us—I ought to.”
“And you talkin’ about investin’ in a saloon.”
“I didn’t. He asked me if we was lookin’ over the place, and I intimated we was interested enough to invest what we had in a payin’ proposition. He didn’t need to know we had only twenty dollars, did he? And yuh learn a lot more about conditions if they think you’ve got money.”
“That may be true, but just the same I don’t know of any good reason why we should go to Red Arrow. It’s only a little range, Hashknife. It won’t be long before the old snow will be cuttin’ across this country, and it’ll shore catch two unworthy punchers with thin seats in their pants, if them two punchers don’t do somethin’. We started out for Arizona, if yuh remember. It’s summer down there, cowboy. I want to read about my snow this winter. And as far as that train robbery is concerned—nobody got hurt.”
Hashknife leaned against a post and rolled a cigarette, a half-smile on his thin lips, as he glanced at the serious face of Sleepy Stevens.
“Sleepy, I’m goin’ to foller you this time. You’ve always trailed my bets, and for once in our lives I’m goin’ to foller you. Head for Arizona, cowboy; and I’ll rub knees with yuh. C’mon.”
“My God!” exclaimed Sleepy. “I’ll betcha you’re sick. Don’tcha feel kinda faint? Any spots in front of yore eyes? Kinda ache all over? No?”
“I feel normal,” grinned Hashknife.
“Yuh shore don’t act it. Huh! Well, mebby I’m dreamin’. After while I’ll wake up and find myself bein’ shot at by somebody you’re trailin’. Let’s go, before yuh suffer a relapse.”
They went down to the livery stable, where an unkempt, sleepy-eyed stable-man met them. He squinted at Hashknife, spat violently, and glanced back along the row of stalls.
“We’re pullin’ out,” said Hashknife. “What’s our bill?”
“Oh, about fo’ bits. Say”—he squinted at Hashknife—“one of you fellers was a-ridin’ a tall, gray bronc, wasn’t yuh?”
“I ride him,” said Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Well, I shore wondered about it. Seemed to me I remembered yuh did, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t like to say too much, but I’m plumb scared that somebody got color-blind early this mornin’.”
“What do yuh mean?” asked Hashknife quickly.
“C’mere and take a look.”
He led them farther down the stable, halting behind Sleepy’s sorrel gelding. On the left was an empty stall and on the right stood a rough-looking, dark bay horse, with one cropped ear and a hammer-head. It turned and looked at the men, an evil glint in its eyes.
“That’s where yore gray stood,” declared the stable-man. “I put yore broncs together. Early this mornin’ I heard somebody ride in and put up a horse. I didn’t git up. Folks usually take care of their own bronc at that time in the mornin’. But when I got up I didn’t find no extra horse in here, and when I went to feed ’em, I shore noticed that yore horse has turned color quite a bit.”
“That’s not my horse,” said Hashknife.
“Shore it ain’t. And it’s lame, too. Picked up a stone. I dug it out a while ago and filled the place with some axle-grease.”
“What’s the brand on it?”
“Half-Box R.”
“Who owns that brand?”
“Feller by the name of Reimer—Butch Reimer. His ranch is about eight miles from here, between here and Red Arrer. Yuh can’t tell who owns the horse now, of course.”
“He’d probably know who owns it,” said Sleepy.
“Prob’ly might.”
“What kind of a feller?” asked Hashknife.
“Plumb forked, Butch is, and he hires a forked crew. Honest, as far as I know, though. That ain’t such a bad animal, at that. Betcha he’d stand a lot.”
“Betcha he’d give a lot, too,” smiled Hashknife. “Is he too lame to travel?”
“Might be. Be all right t’morrow.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, sat down on the sidewalk and considered the situation. While Hashknife voiced no complaint, Sleepy knew that the tall cowboy would go through fire to get that gray horse back again.
“We’ll wait until that bronc is able to travel, Sleepy. One more day won’t make nor break us.”
“You mean to say you’d pull out and leave some danged thief to own Ghost?”
“Well, it—it can’t be helped, Sleepy. It would take a long time to hunt down a horse-thief in this country. We’ll rest up until tomorrow and then head for Arizona.”
“We will like hell! We’ll head for the Half-Box R ranch and find out who owns that crowbait.”
Hashknife smiled thoughtfully at Sleepy. “You ain’t just tryin’ to play the game back at me, are yuh?”
“Not a bit.”
“Well, I’m really glad, Sleepy. It’s time we quit foolin’ around. We’re gettin’ old, me and you; kinda mellow. Why, a few years ago, I’d ’a’ started out after that horse-thief on foot. But I’m slowin’ up, I tell yuh.”
“Yea-a-ah, I’ll betcha. You’ll prob’ly kiss him when we find him. Trade yore gun for a cane, grandpa. Let’s go and get us a drink.”
Welcome was a smaller town than Red Arrow, and it did not take the stable-man long to spread the news that somebody had stolen a horse from one of the strange cowboys.
A number of people went down to look at the Half-Box R horse, but none of them seemed to be able to tell who owned it. Butch Reimer was well known in Welcome, and as far as Hashknife was able to find out, he bore a fairly good reputation as a cattleman.
The thief had been thoughtful enough to take his own saddle, which was something for Hashknife to be thankful for, as his saddle had been made to order. There was no further news of the robbery, although they heard several people discussing it during the day.
They spent the day playing pool, which was a favorite diversion with both of them. During one of the games Sleepy grew thoughtful, which was unusual with him.
“I was thinkin’ about that big robbery,” he said, when they were in their room that night. “They ought to pay a good reward for the return of that much money.”
Hashknife’s indifference nettled Sleepy.
“Oh, ... all right!” he snorted. “For once in our misguided lives, let’s show a little sense.”
“I’m with yuh—if I never see the back of my neck.”
“Then you’re a changed man,” declared Sleepy.
“Gettin’ old, I reckon.”
Hashknife stretched wearily, but his thin lips were smiling as he stripped off his thin, much-washed blue shirt, disclosing a lean, muscular torso. He had long arms, big hands; and his muscles rippled under his bronzed skin, as he snapped his arms back and forth in short arm punches which would have floored a man.
His waist was narrow, hips long and lean, and with his high-heeled boots off he moved with the grace of a cat.
Sleepy watched him admiringly.
“Too bad yuh didn’t take up prize-fightin’, Hashknife.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” smiled Hashknife. “How about you?”
“I don’t think fast enough.”
“And I’d probably sit down to think, durin’ a fight.”
“I’ll bet yuh would. If somebody mentioned a mystery, it’s a cinch you’d forget what yuh was doin’, Hashknife.”
“It’s a failin’, I suppose. Ho-o-o-hum! We better hit the hay if we’re startin’ early.”
And Sleepy knew that it was not a job at the roundup that was calling Hashknife. The moment the gambler had mentioned the train robbery Sleepy knew what would happen. He had been Hashknife’s partner long enough to know the inner workings of that long cowboy’s mind, and he knew the mention of that holdup to Hashknife was like a spur to a bronco.
It meant a chance to pit his mind against crime and criminals; not so much because he disliked criminals, but because of the dangerous game.
Hashknife had never studied psychology, nor had he ever tried to analyze crime. Born of poor parents—his father had been an itinerant minister in the Milk River country, in Montana—he had had little schooling. At an early age he had started out to make his own way in the world, working as a cowboy, the only profession he knew.
But he had a receptive mind, and in the years that followed he had picked up a varied education, absorbing the things that are often overlooked by other men, more fortunate in their earlier years; studying human nature, but always analyzing things. He wanted to know the why of everything.
Drifting one day to the ranch, the brand of which gave him his nickname, he met Dave Stevens, another wandering cowboy, who became “Sleepy” because he seemed always wide awake, and these two mounted their horses one day, strapped on their war-bags and bed-rolls, and started out to see the other side of the hill.
And since that day they had seen many ranges and the other side of many hills; but there were always more ranges ahead—more hills to cross. It had not been a profitable partnership as far as money was concerned. Right now they had less money than they had the day they left the old Hashknife ranch; but behind them were memories that money could not buy; memories of people who prayed that some day these two cowboys might come back and help enjoy the happiness their work had wrought.
Life had made them fatalists. Death had struck at them many times, but missed. Sometimes it was very close. They both bore scars of conflict, and they fully realized the danger of their work; realized that some day the pendulum of fortune might swing the wrong way.
In many localities they were marked men. Their reputation was well known, and among those who worked outside the law, they were spoken of as something to be avoided. Neither of them was a split-second gunman, nor were they of the dead-shot variety; but many times had they walked out of a powder-smoke haze unscathed, while gun-men had to be carried out feet-first.
CHAPTER XII—THE HALF-BOX R
“A hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars!” exploded Chuck Ring. “Didn’t I tell yuh, Slim? Didn’t I? By golly, I knew what I was talkin’ about, didn’t I?”
“You said a million,” reminded Scotty McKay.
“What’s the difference? Dang near a million, ain’t it? I’ll betcha you wouldn’t know the difference, if yuh saw the two amounts together. Just think of a hundred and thirty-two thousand! Why, yuh can’t ee-magine it!”
“Takes brains,” admitted Scotty seriously.
The representative of the express company nodded gravely, sucking heavily on his cigar. He was seated in the sheriff’s office, occupying the extra chair, while the two deputies squatted against the wall. Slim Caldwell leaned back in his chair, feet crossed on top of his desk, a frown between his eyes.
“That’s what it amounts to,” said the Wells Fargo man. “There’s a five-thousand-dollar reward.”
“And who in hell,” said Chuck querulously, “would be fool enough to trade yuh a hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars for five thousand?”
“That all depends on the point of view.”
“Well, I know what mine would be.”
“Yuh spoke of valuable packages,” said Slim.
“Yes, I did. There are two packages, each containing fifty cut diamonds. These packages are worth twenty-five thousand each. There is one small package containing a single diamond ring, worth ten thousand dollars. Another package contains five platinum and diamond watches, valued at seven thousand. A package of currency worth thirty-five thousand, a canvas sack of gold worth ten thousand, and a package of negotiable bonds, worth twenty thousand. In all there were seven packages.”
“Good God!” snorted Chuck. “Some fellers shore do have all the luck. If I held up that train, I’d prob’ly get a mail-order catalogue.”
“You say you are not a detective,” said Slim.
“I am not; I merely represent the company. I don’t know what good a detective would do in a case of this kind. It is merely a case of a lone bandit holding up the train and making his getaway. His capture would consist more of luck than anything else. As you have said, the description of the robber would fit half the men in the Valley. And as far as that is concerned, any one man in the Valley could have done the job.”
“And he’d be a sucker to give it back,” declared Chuck.
“We don’t expect him to give it back. But to the man who can recover that money—or rather the packages, intact—we will give five thousand dollars.”
Slim did not tell the Wells Fargo man about his suspicions in regard to Rance McCoy, but Merkle, the prosecutor, did, and the man came straight back to Slim about it.
“With all that evidence, why don’t you arrest him, sheriff?”
“I can,” said Slim. “But you’ll never get yore stuff back. Old Rance McCoy would see you and yore company in hell before he’d squawk. If you want to pay a hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars for puttin’ him in jail—it’s yore money. And if Merkle don’t quit blattin’ about what he knows, we’ll never get it.”
“The prosecutor wants a conviction, of course.”
“And you want the money back,” said Slim dryly. “Mebby you better tell Merkle to keep his mouth shut, eh?”
“Might be a good idea, sheriff.”
“Best in the world.”
Slim Caldwell left Chuck and Scotty at the office, saddled his horse and rode away. He thought of going down to the Circle Spade and having a heart-to-heart talk with old Rance, and was almost to the ranch before he decided to postpone it for a while.
And instead of going to see old Rance, he swung off to the right and went down to the big cut along the railroad. The coyotes and magpies had been busy at the carcass of their Exhibit A, and there was little left of it. Below the big cut, near Curlew Spur, was a crossing, where Slim crossed the tracks and headed for the Half-Box R. It was not over two miles to Butch Reimer’s ranch, and Slim found Butch at home with Billy DuMond. The rest of the crew were working.
Butch greeted the sheriff pleasantly enough, but his small eyes showed a certain curiosity over the sheriff’s visit. DuMond had not been to Red Arrow since Rance McCoy had practically run him out of town, and Slim thought he acted a trifle sheepish about it, although nothing was said about the incident.
“What’s new on the robbery?” asked Butch.
“Nothin’ much, Butch. He got a hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars’ worth.”
“What do yuh know about that! Gosh, that was worth goin’ after, Slim.”
“Shore was.”
“Who have we here?” grunted DuMond.
Hashknife and Sleepy were riding up through the big gate, heading directly to the ranch-house.
“I never seen them two before,” said DuMond.
“Howdy,” greeted Butch, getting to his feet.
The two cowboys dismounted and led their horses up to the porch.
“Howdy, folks,” smiled Hashknife. “Is this the Half-Box R outfit?”
“This is her,” nodded Butch.
“Fine. Take a look at that bay and see if yuh can remember who owned it last.”
Butch walked down the steps and looked the animal over. Slim also moved down and examined the animal.
“Wears my brand,” said Butch thoughtfully. “I don’t just remember that particular animal. What about him, stranger?”
“That particular animal,” said Hashknife slowly, “was left in place of my horse, night before last, in Welcome.”
“Yea-a-ah? Well, I’ll be darned!”
“And I thought yuh might know who owned the animal.”
“No-o-o-o, I can’t say I do. Funny he’d leave this horse and take yore animal.”
“This one had a sore foot. That’s why we’re a day late in lookin’ up that light-fingered jigger’s family tree.”
Butch Reimer laughed softly and looked at Hashknife. Slim did not grin. He studied the horse closely and turned to Hashknife.
“I’m the sheriff of this county,” he said. “Name’s Slim Caldwell.”
Hashknife thrust out his hand quickly.
“Pleased to meet yuh, sheriff. My name’s Hartley. Meet my pardner, Stevens.”
Slim introduced them to Reimer and DuMond.
“Goin’ to be around here a while, Hartley?” asked Butch.
“Long enough to see who got my bronc.”
“Oh, yeah. If you’re lookin’ for work, there’ll be plenty of it. Roundup starts in a week or so, and there ain’t too many cow-hands in this country.”
“We’re headin’ for Arizona,” explained Hashknife.
“Goin’ down where it’s hot, eh?”
“Why don’t yuh jist keep that horse?” queried DuMond. “He’s as good as you’ll find.”
“Not if I can find mine,” smiled Hashknife.
“Lost horses are always best,” laughed DuMond.
“It ain’t so much the difference in the animals,” said Hashknife. “I like to keep what I own.”
“Well, I never quarreled much if I got a fair exchange.”
“You probably wouldn’t.”
DuMond took a good look at Hashknife’s gray eyes and decided not to carry the conversation any further.
“You boys goin’ on to Red Arrow?” asked Slim.
“We didn’t intend to,” replied Hashknife. “I’m sorry yuh don’t remember who owned that horse, ’cause I’d shore like to find the ex-owner and explain the difference between this bronc and the one he took from me.”
“Might as well take a look at the town,” suggested Sleepy. “We’re this far, so we might as well go on.”
“Sure,” agreed Slim heartily. “Ride along with me.”
They left the Half-Box R and rode away toward Red Arrow together. Slim was not very communicative, and Hashknife noticed that he looked often at the bay horse.
“Not wishin’to get personal on short acquaintance,” smiled Hashknife, “but haven’t you an idea who owned this horse, sheriff?”
“I can’t swear that I do, Hartley. Yuh might be fooled in a bay horse, so I better keep my mouth shut. Stealin’ horses is a crime in this country, yuh know.”
“I thought it might be. It is in several places I’ve been. Down at Welcome I was talkin’ to a gambler, who used to deal at the Eagle in Red Arrow, and he told me quite a lot about the place. His name was Warren.”
“Oh, yeah; Bill Warren. I heard he was down there. The Eagle has closed its doors.”
“He said it probably would. Did McCoy go busted?”
“More than likely. His old man won pretty close to eight thousand the night before it closed.”
“Did he pay it?”
Slim laughed shortly. “I dunno. Don’t see how he could. That’s a lot of money, Hartley. Remember that feller DuMond yuh just met at the ranch? Well, old Rance McCoy danged near killed him that night. He shore made DuMond crawl.”
“Rance McCoy is pretty salty, eh?”
“About ninety-nine per cent.”
They crossed the river and were almost to town when Slim Caldwell looked sharply at Hashknife.
“You don’t happen to be any relation to a feller named Hartley that was up on the Thunder River range for a while a year or so ago, do yuh?”
“I dunno,” replied Hashknife. “There’s more or less Hartleys scattered over the country.”
“Not this kind of a Hartley.”
“Colored one?” grinned Hashknife.
“Pretty much white, as far as I’ve heard.”
“I guess it wasn’t any of my relatives, sheriff.”
“Prob’ly not. It just struck me kinda queer that there should be two Hartleys runnin’ around with Stevens for a bunkie.”
Hashknife’s face did not change expression, and when the sheriff looked at Sleepy, there was only mild wonder in that worthy’s innocent blue eyes.
“That shore is funny,” said Sleepy seriously.
“There’s a lot of queer things in the world,” said Hashknife. “It kinda amazes us three to think that there should be two sets of Hartleys and Stevens runnin’ loose thataway. In fact, there ain’t many folks that would believe it; so let’s not tell anybody else, sheriff.”
Slim eased himself in his saddle and nodded shortly.
“I don’t want to make myself out a liar,” he said seriously. “As far as I know, there’s only one set.”
“And that’s no lie,” smiled Hashknife.
They rode past the little schoolhouse and saw Lila and Angel on the porch, talking to each other. Hashknife happened to see the expression on Slim’s face when he saw Lila and Angel, and he knew the sheriff was annoyed.
“That was Angel McCoy and Lila Stevens,” said Slim. “At least, they say her name is Stevens.”
“Thasso?” grunted Sleepy. “What do yuh know about that? I’ve knowed a lot of folks named Stevens, but she’s the first one I ever felt like scrapin’ up relationship with.”
CHAPTER XIII—TWO SUSPECTS
Lila had sent for Angel. After what had happened in the Eagle that night, she felt that she would never want to speak to him again; but she wanted to know what was in that letter. Angel had only blurted a few words.
But he refused to tell her any more. He seemed to blame her for all his hard luck, which was manifestly unfair.
“Why didn’t you keep out of there?” he asked her. “You ruined everything. Even if Rance McCoy had practically busted my bank—he had brought the crowd back to my place, and I’d get it all back with interest. But if you want to know so much about yourself, I’ll tell yuh this much: your mother died in an insane asylum, and your father was shot for robbing a bank.”
Lila stepped back against the building, her face growing white, her eyes widening in horror.
“Angel, that is not true!” she gasped. “You are lying, just to hurt me.”
He shook his head quickly.
“No, I’m not lyin’. I tell yuh, it’s true. Rance McCoy can’t deny it. I had it all in writin’—but he tore it up. Oh, I can get another letter. Or you might write to the sheriff of Medicine Tree. He dug up the information for me.”
Angel turned and walked away, leaving her staring after him, her eyes full of misery. Her mother insane! Her father a thief! What a parentage!
She dismissed school for the afternoon, and the fifteen pupils went whooping away across the school yard. As she walked back down the street toward Parker’s home, it seemed as though every one on the street was looking at her, talking about her.
Suddenly she looked up. In front of her stood Rance McCoy. He was looking at her seriously, his mouth twisted a little, as though he wanted to smile, but was afraid.
For several moments they looked at each other.
Then—
“Yuh look like you’d jist seen a ghost, Lila,” he said.
Ghost! She wondered if he had talked with Angel.
“You ain’t sick, are yuh, Lila?”
“Sick?” Her voice sounded hoarse. “I—I guess I am. I talked with Angel today.”
Old Rance peered closely at her, coming nearer.
“You talked with Angel, eh? What about, Lila?”
“About my—my parents.”
“Yea-a-ah?” The old man’s lips tightened and he rubbed the knuckles of his right hand along the filled loops of his cartridge-belt.
“He’s bitter,” she said, as though defending him.
“Bitter, is he?” Rance laughed harshly. “Oh, I suppose he is—the dirty sidewinder.”
“He’s your son, Rance McCoy.”
“That don’t stop him from bein’ a sidewinder, does it?”
“Perhaps not. Oh, I’m sorry I went to the Eagle that night. I suppose it was none of my business, but he had admitted to me that he dealt crooked with you. You had already given him so much, you know.”
“I’m glad yuh came,” he said slowly. “It kinda showed that yuh—yuh hadn’t forgotten the old man. Angel hates me. He’s always hated me, Lila. And I’m gettin’ so old that it hurts to be hated.”
“I’m sorry. I—I don’t hate you. But it wasn’t fair to never let me know who I was. Angel swears that I came to expose him that night in order to—to get some of your money.”
“Some of my money, eh?” Old Rance smiled bitterly.
“He brags about how much of it he got.”
“Does he? It’s worth braggin’ about, Lila. How is yore school comin’ along?”
“All right. I love the work.”
“Well, that’s fine. It’s good honest work, Lila. We miss yuh out at the Circle Spade—me and Chuckwalla.”
“I may come out some day,” she said.
“That would sure be fine, Lila.”
He watched her go on down the street, and then went over to the Red Arrow bank, where he found Merkle, the prosecuting attorney, talking with the cashier. Merkle and Rance had never been friends; so they ignored each other.
Down at the Sheriff’s office Chuck Ring was making a close examination of the horse Hashknife had ridden, and when he went back into the office he declared he knew the owner of the horse.
“That’s the horse Kid Glover’s been ridin’,” he stated. “He broke the animal himself. There’s a scar on its left shoulder where it bulked into a hitchin’-post over by the Red Arrow Saloon. If Butch Reimer says he don’t know that horse, he’s either mistaken or lyin’ about it.”
“Are yuh sure of it, Chuck?” asked Slim.
“Jist as sure as hell. You go look at it, Scotty.” Scotty McKay grinned and shook his head.
“Don’t need to,” he said. “I knew the animal the moment I seen it; but I didn’t know whether it was supposed to be recognized or not.”
“And what kind of a jigger is Kid Glover?” asked Hashknife.
“If Kid Glover was in town, and yuh heard a dog yelp, you’d know who kicked it,” said Chuck Ring.
Hashknife grinned at Chuck.
“That’s sure givin’ him a bad name, Ring.”
“He’s a bad boy,” said Slim seriously. “Arizona puncher, ignorant as hell. He’s kept pretty well out of trouble around here, but he’s got the earmarks of a bad actor.”
“Well, we might as well go back there and teach him the difference between bay and gray,” said Sleepy.
“Sheriff, do yuh suppose he’s ignorant enough to make that trade in Welcome and come back to the ranch with the gray horse?” asked Hashknife.
Slim shook his head quickly.
“The Kid is ignorant, but that don’t mean he’s a fool. You’ll have to look further than the Half-Box R, Hartley.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’.”
“But why would Butch Reimer deny knowin’ the horse?” wondered Scotty McKay.
“Now, you’re talkin’,” grunted Chuck.
“And that’s about all,” said Slim quickly. “Butch Reimer ain’t so poor he has to steal horses.”
“Well, it looks to me as though I better be satisfied with the trade,” grinned Hashknife. “I dunno just where we’re goin’, but when we get there I’ll drop yuh a card. That gray horse will weight close to twelve hundred, and on his left shoulder is a Cross-in-a-Box brand. He’s five years old and he’ll buck when the spirit moves him.”
“I’ll shore keep an eye out for him, Hartley,” said Slim. “If he shows up, I’ll get him for yuh.”
“Thanks.”
Hashknife and Sleepy walked outside to their horses, followed by the sheriff and his men. Hashknife mounted, but Sleepy merely untied his animal, looking curiously at Hashknife.
“Do yuh mean that we’re headin’ back?” asked Sleepy.
“Sure,” said Hashknife seriously. “We’ll sleep in Welcome tonight, and then head south in the mornin’.”
“We will!” blurted Sleepy. “What’s the matter with you—losin’ yore grip, cowboy? Do you mean to set there and tell me that you’re goin’ to let an ignorant puncher forcibly trade yuh out of Ghost?”
“Well, it might take a long time, Sleepy. You wanted to go to Arizona pretty bad, and I just thought——”
“Well, we ain’t goin’—jist yet. Arizona won’t move away, will it? Git off that bronc and let’s find a place to sleep.”
“We-e-e-ell, all right,” grudgingly. “I suppose I’ve got to go through life humorin’ yuh, feller. I hope some day to have my own way in somethin’.”
But Sleepy knew Hashknife’s true feelings in the matter; knew that it would break Hashknife’s heart to go away and leave Ghost in the hands of some one else. And he knew that the puzzle of the train robbery was calling Hashknife to action.
With all Sleepy’s objections to working with Hashknife in solving these range mysteries, he was just as eager to mix into them as was Hashknife.
Scotty McKay went with them to the livery stable and to the hotel. When they went back to the office they found Slim talking with Merkle. After Merkle went away Slim called Hashknife aside.
“You heard some of the talk about old Rance McCoy beatin’ the Eagle games out of close to eight thousand, didn’t yuh?” asked Slim.
Hashknife said he had.
“Well,” continued Slim, “here’s the queer part of it. The old man drew seventy-five hundred from the bank that day—every cent he had. Now, he won close to eight thousand, which would make his roll close to sixteen thousand dollars. To-day, so Merkle tells me, the old man borrowed five hundred from the bank.”
“And you think the old man robbed that train, eh?”
“Who told yuh that?”
“Nobody; I just felt it.”
“Uh-huh; and I’ll tell yuh why, Hartley.”
Slim explained about finding Rance McCoy’s horse near the spot where the safe had been blown, and some of the things that happened during the actual blowing of the safe. He told Hashknife about the bruise on the old man’s head, and of the shots that had been fired at Scotty, when he went back to guard their evidence.
“Maybe somebody stole the horse,” said Hashknife.
“If they did, why didn’t the old man say something about it? He’s never said a word about it. And the men who shot at Scotty took away the saddle, after skinnin’ off all the brands and iden-tifyin’ marks.”
“How does it happen that yuh never arrested him?”
“Stole too much money. Amounts to over a hundred thousand, and when a man steals that much it’s pretty hard to put him in jail until after the money is found, yuh know.”
“That’s all right; but how are yuh goin’ to find out?”
“And there yuh are,” sighed Slim.
“You spoke about Angel McCoy goin’ broke. The robbery was a one-man job.”
“That’s true. I tell yuh, Hartley, there’s a lot of men in this county that would probably take a chance on that much money.”
“Yuh don’t need to confine yourself to this county.”
“I suppose not. I’m no detective. I believe one third of what I hear, and a half of all I see. I’m no closer to findin’ out who robbed that train than I was the night it happened.”
“Some cowboy may start wearin’ diamonds,” grinned Hashknife. “They won’t be easy to dispose of in this country.”
“Whoever got ’em can afford to wait for a chance to turn ’em into money—and they might wait a long time.”
Hashknife liked Slim Caldwell. He seemed to have a lot of common sense. But Hashknife was more interested in old Rance McCoy. They had told Hashknife about Chuckwalla, and he sounded rather interesting. While the robbery of the express safe held certain elements of mystery, Hashknife was not greatly interested in it—not yet.
It rather amused him to think that the sheriff, prosecuting attorney, and the Wells Fargo representative believed that old Rance McCoy robbed the train, but because of the great amount of money involved, they hesitated to charge him with the crime.
He wondered why Kid Glover traded horses with him. It looked as though the Kid, traveling fast, crippled his horse and was obliged to make a quick trade. But why had the Kid been traveling fast, he wondered? And why did Butch Reimer deny any knowledge of that bay horse when Chuck Ring and Scotty McKay had been able to identify it instantly? Hashknife decided that the thing to do was to find out something about Kid Glover.
CHAPTER XIV—RANCE’S CONFESSION
“Of all the exasperatin’ old badgers I ever did see, you’re the worst, Rance.”
Chuckwalla Ike sloshed a shirt up and down in a pan of soapy water and glared at Rance McCoy, who was tilted back against the kitchen wall, his heels hooked over the rung of a chair.
Rance made no reply to Chuckwalla’s outburst, and it made Chuckwalla mad to be ignored. He yanked viciously on one side of his long mustache with a soapy finger and thumb, which caused the mustache to curl up in a dripping ringlet.
“Why in hell don’tcha try to find out where yore horse and saddle is?” demanded Chuckwalla. “Don’tcha care? Is the Circle Spade so dam’ rich that yuh can lose a horse and saddle every once in a while and not miss it?”
The old man continued his thoughtful scrutiny of the old kitchen floor, ignoring Chuckwalla’s outburst. Finally he lifted his head and looked at Chuckwalla, who was wringing the shirt.
“I heard somethin’ about that horse,” he said slowly.
“Yuh did, eh?”
“Uh-huh. I reckon me and you are about the only folks around here that don’t know it. Jim Langley talked to me today about it.”
Chuckwalla hung the shirt over the back of a chair and seated himself in the chair, facing Rance.
“Yea-a-ah?” he queried drawlingly. “And now I’m the only one that don’t know. Jist about what are you talkin’ about, Rance?”
“That holdup, Chuckwalla. Jist outside the railroad fence they found my horse and saddle the mornin’ of the robbery. Horse had been shot. Yuh see, the messenger fired several shots.”
Chuckwalla fingered his mustaches violently.
“That’s shore clear to me,” he said. “Yore horse and saddle? Say, Rance, where was you that night?”
“Don’t go barkin’ at shadders,” advised Rance.
“A-a-aw, damn yuh, Rance; I didn’t mean that. Can’t yuh prove where yuh was?”
“Nope. Anyway, nobody asked me—yet. Remember that Slim and his two deputies ate breakfast with us that mornin’? They’d jist found the horse and saddle.”
“Well, why didn’t they arrest yuh, Rance?”
“Because they don’t know where I cached that money.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“And as long as I can’t come out and tell where it is, they’re scared to arrest me. Anyway, that’s what Jim Langley told me; and he got it from Merkle.”
Chuckwalla tugged at his mustaches, his eyes half-closed in deep meditation.
“What’s yore opinion, Chuckwalla?” asked Rance.
“Don’t never tell, Rance.”
“I won’t,” Rance assured him warmly.
“That’s the stuff. Didja see Angel in town?”
“I didn’t see him, but he’s there. The Eagle is closed.”
“I’ll betcha. You shore took the conceit out of him, Rance.”
“Did I?”
“And close to eight thousand along with it. Take off that shirt and I’ll wash it for yuh. Say, didja meet them two strange punchers?”
Old Rance peeled off his shirt and handed it to Chuckwalla.
“Yeah, I met ’em.”
“So did I. That tall feller ain’t nobody’s fool. Me and him sets down on the sidewalk, and it ain’t more’n five minutes before I finds m’self tellin’ him all about you and Angel and Lila. Fact. Yuh hadn’t ought to wear a shirt so long, Rance. Not over six weeks, at the outside.
“I dunno what this Hartley wanted to know so much for, and he didn’t tell me. He looks plumb through yuh. Three times I started to lie to him—and quit. He talked with Angel. Yeah, he told me he had. Jim Parker took sort of a likin’ to him and his pardner and invited them up to supper. I heard that Stevens won two hundred dollars at the Red Arrow Saloon the other day.
“I’ll never git that neck-band clean, Rance. If you’d wash yore neck once in a while——”
“What did this Hartley person want to know?” interrupted Rance.
“Oh, jist a few things. F’r instance, he wanted to know how it comes that you have seventy-five hundred dollars, win close to eight thousand more—and then have to borrow money from the bank.”
Chuckwalla sloshed the shirt around in the water and held it off at arm’s length, looking at it critically. Old Rance peered at Chuckwalla, his grizzled eyebrows almost concealing his eyes.
“He asked yuh that, did he?” coldly.
“Shore.”
“What did yuh say?”
“Nothin’. What could I say? I didn’t know yuh did, Rance.”
“I didn’t know that things like that was anybody’s business!”
“They are, when yuh git famous, Rance.”
“Famous, eh?”
“Or notorious.”
“That’s a better word. I’m goin’ to town, Chuckwalla.”
“Thasso? Mebby I’ll go with yuh.”
“You better stay here, I think.”
“Yuh think so, do yuh?” Chuckwalla wiped his soapy hands on his overalls and spat thoughtfully.
“I think so,” nodded Rance.
“You think ag’in, Rance. You’re aimin’ to make a fool of yoreself, old-timer. Oh, I can read yuh like a book.”
“I’m not goin’ to start anythin’, Chuckwalla.”
“I know. That’s jist yore polite way of sayin’ that yuh won’t shoot anybody from behind. You jist wait until I wring out them two pairs of socks and I’ll be with yuh.”
Hashknife seemed to make no effort to find out more about Kid Glover. He and Sleepy were content to lazy around the town, spending much of their time at the sheriff’s office. They had met and talked with Lila, and Hashknife had talked at length with Angel, whom he found to be rather cynical and sarcastic. Hashknife put him down as a “bad boy.” He liked Lila.
He found out that Billy DuMond was the one who had started the trouble in the McCoy family, and he tried to pump DuMond, but without any success. DuMond felt that he had already talked too much for the sake of his health.
Slim Caldwell was making no progress toward the solving of the robbery. The Wells Fargo man was still in town, possibly waiting for something to turn up. Hashknife did not bother to talk with him. Merkle wanted Rance McCoy behind the bars, and did not conceal his wishes.
Butch Reimer had not been in town since Hashknife and Sleepy had arrived, but on the morning that old Rance and Chuckwalla decided to come in, Butch, DuMond, and Dell Blackwell came to Red Arrow.
Slim Caldwell and Hashknife were together in the Red Arrow Saloon when Butch and his two men came in. Hashknife thought Butch seemed a little surprised to meet him again. Butch’s misplaced eyebrow drew down a little as he nodded to Hashknife and Slim. DuMond and Blackwell ignored them entirely.
“How are yuh comin’, Butch?” asked Slim casually.
“Oh, all right,” grunted Butch. “Fair enough, I reckon.”
“Where’s Kid Glover?” asked Slim.
Butch frowned slightly, but answered readily enough: “The Kid pulled out a few days ago. I dunno where he went.”
“I wish I did,” said Hashknife, leaning one elbow on the bar and looking directly at Butch.
“Thasso?” queried Butch. “Why?”
“On account of my gray horse.”
“Yea-a-ah? What about yore gray horse, Hartley?”
“I want him, Reimer. You say yuh don’t know where Kid Glover is, eh?”
“No idea.”
“And yuh didn’t recognize that bay horse, didja?”
“What in hell is this—a guessin’ contest?”
“Right now it is, Reimer. It may change any time.”
Butch Reimer blinked slowly, thoughtfully. He knew he didn’t stand a ghost of a chance to bluff this tall, gray-eyed cowboy.
“Why didja deny knowin’ that bay horse?” asked Hashknife. “Lotsa folks recognized it as Kid Glover’s horse.”
“Did they?”
“That’s a fact, Butch,” said Slim softly.
“Uh-huh.”
Butch cleared his throat harshly and tried to grin.
“I’ll tell yuh why I didn’t say anythin’,” he explained. “I didn’t know Hartley. The Kid was with me a long time, and yuh don’t usually throw down folks yuh know in favor of a stranger, Slim. At least, I don’t. I’ll admit that the animal belongs to the Kid. He quit his job and pulled out of the country ridin’ that bay horse. Naturally, I didn’t want to put him in bad; so I said I didn’t know the horse.”
The explanation was not entirely satisfactory to Hashknife.
“He must ’a’ been in a hurry,” said Hashknife.
“I dunno a thing about it,” said Reimer testily. “I’ve admitted that I know the horse; what more do yuh want?”
“The horse.”
“Well, I ain’t got it!”
Butch shoved away from the bar and grew interested in the play at a roulette wheel. Hashknife smiled thinly, as he and Slim went back to the office, where they found Sleepy, Scotty McKay, and Jim Langley talking about the robbery.
“Even if a man had them diamonds—what could he do with ’em?” asked Langley. “Yuh can’t sell ’em.”
“Can’t yuh?” laughed Scotty. “I could, y’bet-cha. I’d hop a train and take ’em East. You shore can sell diamonds in any big town.”
“Yuh could do that, Scotty.”
“Probably have to discount ’em pretty bad; but, at that, you’d have more money than yuh ever seen before.”
None of them saw Rance McCoy and Chuckwalla Ike ride in. They tied their horses and went straight to the bank. Michael Hale, the cashier of the bank, nodded pleasantly at old Rance, but got a scowl in return.
“You told Merkle that I borrowed money, Hale,” said old Rance accusingly. “I didn’t know that was the way yuh done business.”
Hale swallowed heavily. The old man’s eyes were as hard as granite and the scars of his face showed white against the leather-brown of his skin.
“Why, I—I—he asked me about you,” faltered Hale. “He wanted to know about your account here, and I—I told him you had closed it. He knew you lost twenty-five hundred, and he knew you drew——”
“And you told him I borrowed money, didn’t yuh?”
“I—yes, I told him. He represents the law, and we——”
“That’s all right, Hale. I jist wanted to tell yuh that yore bank won’t never handle the money I stole from the Wells Fargo.”
Old Rance turned on his heel and walked out, followed by Chuckwalla, leaving Hale to stare open-mouthed after them. Out on the sidewalk Chuckwalla turned fiercely on Rance.
“You old fool!” he snorted. “What didja say that for? Tellin’ him yuh stole that money! My God, you’re shore gettin’ childish, Rance.”
But Rance made no defense. He led the way to the courthouse and straight to Merkle’s office. The officers of Red Arrow County had no office boys, no stenographers to bar the way of anybody who wanted to enter their sacred portals.
The Wells Fargo man was in conference with Merkle when Rance and Chuckwalla came in. Merkle took one look at the two old cattlemen and wished he was elsewhere.
“Hyah, lawyer,” growled Rance, ignoring the other man. “Understand yuh been connectin’ me with the robbery of that train. I’m down here to make yuh put up or shut up. You’re tellin’ a lot of things about my business, Merkle. They tell me you’re scared to arrest me, ’cause you’re scared you’ll never git the money back. And that’s right, too. You slam me in jail and I’ll never tell yuh where it is.”
Merkle stared at the old man curiously. The Wells Fargo man seemed to see some humor in the situation, but said nothing.
“You—you admit doing it?” gasped Merkle.
“Don’t need to, do I?” Rance laughed harshly.
“Will you sign a confession?”
“I’ll sign nothin’, Merkle. But I’ll take a shot at you, as sure as hell, if yuh don’t shut up about me. That’s a fair warnin’. Put up or shut up.”
“Why, I—I don’t know what to say, McCoy.”
“You’ve said about enough. C’mon, Chuckwalla.”
They tramped out of the office and headed for the Red Arrow Saloon. Some one told Billy DuMond that Rance was on his way, and DuMond went out via the back door. He had no liking to meet Rance McCoy again.
And then old Rance and Chuckwalla proceeded to get drunk. The old man drank recklessly, which was unusual for him. Slim Caldwell heard that the two men from the Circle Spade were drinking heavily, and he also had a report from Merkle and Hale.
Merkle wanted Slim to arrest Rance at once.